Deputy Robert Sherwood finished the last bit of paperwork on that girl who'd been caught shoplifting in the pharmacy. He shook his head. He really wished that asshole Teagarten hadn't insisted on pressing charges. The girl had been sixteen, and had ended up crying hysterically, begging them not to tell her parents, offering to pay them double, triple what the item cost when she got her allowance, but no--Teagarten wanted to make an example of her. *He's sure going to do that, but not the way he intends.* He shook his head disgustedly again, saying, "Over an EPT. It's pretty obvious that poor girl had plenty to worry about as it is."

He tossed the form into his basket, then stretched in his chair, sighing. Lois, who handled dispatch and reception, gave him a sympathetic look. "He's a jerk, Sher. He'd have complained to the Sheriff, the Mayor, and the City Council if you hadn't done it. At least this way maybe it'll stay in the kid's family instead of being spread all over Crystal Lake."

"We can only hope. I didn't like the way she was shaking when she saw that it was her dad who came to pick her up instead of her mother." Lois winced. "Yeah, he has a bit of a rep in the barrooms. It's rumored that his wife and kids wear more bruises than can be easily explained. I pulled him aside and had a little talk with him before he took her away. I mentioned that if that child had so much as a hangnail, and didn't have at least two witnesses to her snagging it, then I was going to come looking for him." He shrugged. "If she's lucky, maybe they'll send her out of state to her grandmother."

The bell over the door jingled, and Robert and Lois looked up. Both of them barely managed to stifle a groan as they saw the two who entered. The woman put an arm around the slender teenage girl and shepherded her toward the counter. Robert knew there was no chance of avoiding this, so he resigned himself. He got up and went to the counter to meet them. "Hello, Mrs. Breman." He turned his gaze to the girl.

It had been a year since he'd first met Daphne Breman. The teenage years were a time of rapid physical change, but the previous twelve months seemed to have left no mark on Daphne. She was still slender and pale, and there was something curiously unfinished about her features. Her blue eyes were fixed on the counter, and he imagined that she was tracing the grain in the wood, totally absorbed in lines and patterns. *She probably finds the world around her confusing. Something regular and unchanging, inanimate, would be soothing to her.* He said gently, "Hello, Daphne."

Elsie squeezed her daughter's arm softly. "Say hello to Deputy Sherwood, dear." She continued staring. She squeezed again. "Daphne."

Daphne's eyes drifted up. "Hello, jello, mellow, bellow."

Robert smiled at her. "You're in fine rhyme today, Daphne." He looked at Mrs. Breman. "She's looking well."

Elsie gave her daughter a fond glance. "She's been much more at ease since I got permission to home school her." She smiled proudly. "She's already tested at a twelfth grade level. I'm talking to the education board about getting permission for her to take her GED in a couple of months. They really don't want to okay it before she's seventeen, but there's no rules against it, so I'm going to insist."

Robert had to wonder sometimes if all the work that got turned in to the authorities was done by Daphne alone, but he supposed it was possible. He'd heard of autistics who were capable of incredible mental feats, even if they couldn't deal with society. He only hoped for her sake that there weren't any oral exams required for a degree.

Elsie said, "Has there been anything?"

Robert told himself, *Don't be irritated with her. It's her husband. If it was my wife, I wouldn't give up.* "No, Mrs. Breman. I'm sorry."

She stared at him silently, then said, "I'm telling you again--he didn't run away."

"His clothes were gone," said Robert logically. "His car was gone. His girlfriend..." he hesitated, glancing at Daphne, then lowered his voice. "The woman said that he'd been talking about leaving."

"Leaving her, maybe."

"What is making you hold on to the idea that he's dead?"

She gave him a small, cold smile. "Because I know my husband. He was a greedy bastard, Deputy. If he'd run off, he would have found a way to take the money from Daphne's settlement with him. And before you can say it, yes, he'd have been that heartless. All we were to him were nuisances. Quite frankly we're both better off without him."

"Then why does it matter if he's dead or just gone?"

"I want to be rid of him permanently, and legally. If he's alive, I'll divorce him. If he's dead... well, I wouldn't mind."

"Dead is better." Daphne's voice was a monotone.

A heavy silence fell on the room. Lois was gazing at the girl with a sort of fascinated horror, but Robert's look was more sad dismay. He said quietly, "Mrs. Breman... have you had someone... look at Daphne?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Detective--of course I have." She stroked the girl's hair. "Doctors of all kinds, psychiatrists. They all tell me the same thing. Aside from the epilepsy--" she looked up at him almost fiercely, "and that's getting better! She hasn't had a seizure in months. Aside from the epilepsy, she's a very healthy girl."

"But... mentally?"

Her tone was razor sharp. "I told you! She's not just of normal intelligence, she's smart. She had an intelligence test--God, how those doctors love to test her--and do you know how she scored? One hundred and twelve, Deputy. The tester said that he had to pay more attention to the oral responses, but she was one of the brightest people he'd ever run across."

"All right, I can accept that. But what about emotionally?" Elsie glared at him. He had been dealing with this woman and her daughter for a year now, and he felt compelled to try to get through to Elsie Breman. She was stubborn where it came to her daughter, reluctant to admit that there was a problem. "Mrs. Breman... she's just... she's just in her own little world."

"And what the hell is wrong with that? I'd like to know just what's so appealing about this world, Deputy Sherwood. Disease, crime, violence, rape, war... I've protected her as much as I can, but the world hasn't been very kind to my girl. She's different, yes, and people never let her forget that. She was tormented every day at school. They'd trip her, and put spitballs in her hair, and call her foul names. I can't blame her for not wanting to have anything to do with this world."

"But you have to realize that this world may someday have a lot to do with her. Mrs. Breman... Don't slap me, but you're moving into middle age..."

She smiled tightly, "That's fairly tactful. I'm fifty-four. Daphne was a late baby. Simpson was so supportive. He even admitted that she was partially his fault, since he should have known I'd be too stupid to remember to take the pill."

Robert fought down his embarrassment and continued. "You're fifty-four, and she's sixteen. You'll be almost sixty before she hits her majority. Mrs. Breman, I wish you a long and healthy life, but you can't count on it. You have to face the fact that there's probably going to come a day when you can't take care of Daphne."

Her eyes glittered. "I'm not a fool. I realized that a long time ago. But I know what you're suggesting--an institution. That's what Simpson wanted. He'd have shut her away somewhere, and never given her a second thought."

"Look, I know that they've had pretty grim reputations, but things have gotten a lot better. Some of the private ones are..."

"A cage is a cage, no matter how plush. I won't have it!" Her voice was rising. She caught a glimpse of Robert's face, and took a deep breath. "I'm taking care of things. I'm speaking to a lawyer, and he says that there should be no problem in having me declared executor of our assets." Her lip curled. "Simpson had it tied up, but there is legal recourse if someone disappears. I'm teaching Daphne all she'll need to know to take care of herself..."

"Look, no one would let her..."

She over rode him, "And I'll be setting up a trust. I'll appoint a guardian for her, someone in social services, who knows how these things work. I've talked to them already, and they say that if she can demonstrate life skills, she can live on her own, with someone to check up on her, and take care of bills. It can be done. It will be expensive, but..." again she smiled, "that's why the money was awarded--to assure Daphne's future."

"You sound like you've put a lot of thought into this."

"She's my child. What else do I have to concern myself with? You'll let me know if you hear anything about Simpson?"

He nodded, then said wryly, "Though I expect I'll hear from you before you hear from me."

"You're probably right."

She turned and went to the door. Robert would have laid money that Daphne would simply remain standing, staring at the counter, till someone physically urged her to move. But without a word or touch from her mother, the girl turned and followed her, eyes still downcast. Lois and Robert watched as Elsie opened the door, let her daughter pass through, and followed her.

When the door shut, Lois expelled a long breath. "That poor kid. She doesn't stand a chance."

Robert shrugged, going back to his desk. "She's got one damn fine mama tiger watching over her."

"But it's like you said--what's going to happen to her when her mother is gone? The world will eat her alive."

"I don't know, Lois," he said as he sat down. "I might be wrong."

"I don't see how..." "I was on relief duty once. We went through a place after a tornado had passed. That thing had leveled barns and brick houses, felled light poles, and billboards. I saw a dozen trees with trunks twice as big around as I was torn up by the roots, and in the middle of all this there was a mimosa sapling." He circled his thumb and forefinger. "This big around. It was standing as firm as ever. There were a couple of broken branches, but you know what? There were still blossoms on the tree--like bunches of deep pink feathers."

"That's interesting, but what does it have to do with this?"

"Sometimes the ones who look weak or soft can fool you." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It's a crazy world, and sometimes it can go flat fucking insane. Who's to say that being a little bit crazy to start with isn't an advantage?"

1984

Bobby Barclay was never in a good mood at work. The fact that he actually HAD to work was enough to piss him off royally. And if he had to work, surely his father could have given him a job around his office, maybe answering phones, or filing papers, or stuff. Something that befitted his inherent coolness--not bagging groceries at the Crystal Lake Market. As he so often griped to his friends, it wasn't as if his father wasn't rich enough to give him money pretty much any time he asked. Instead he gave him some sort of drivel about learning responsibility and becoming self-sufficient. Personally, Bobby thought this was a crock. He wasn't forced to try to subsist on the minimum wage and tips he got for hauling groceries. This was lucky for him, since he was generally so surly and careless that he seldom got tips.

Today he was sullenly counting down the minutes till he could take a break, sneak off for a smoke of something a little stronger than Virginia tobacco. He dropped a can of soup in on top of a loaf of bread, then glanced toward the front doors. "Oh, crap," he sneered to his friend Shawn, who was working at the next station. "Doesn't this just top off the day?"

"What?" Shawn was just a little poorer, a little denser, and a little less handsome than Bobby, so Bobby liked to keep him around.

"Look. It's Daffy Breman and her daffier mother." He tilted his head, and Shawn followed the direction. Elsie Breman was watching as Daphne slowly worked a cart free of the always tangled lines. "I can't believe she's trying to teach that retard how to shop." He laughed. "I wonder what she'll buy? Cat food and ketchup, maybe, with a side order of marshmallow fluff. It might be kind of cool to do you're own shopping. I'd get nothing but beer, and chips, and shit."

"I been in here a couple of times when she shopped," said Shawn. "She buys stuff like my mom. You know, vegetables, 'n fruit, n' milk, n' bread... What my mom calls staples. That's weird. I thought staples were those little wire things you held papers together with."

"Her mom has to load the cart for her."

"Nuh-uh. She does it all herself, an' she doesn't use a list."

"Well, her mother tells her what to get.

Shawn shook his head. "I've been around them when I was out facing shelves. Her mom only gave her instructions once, and that was just to tell her that she got it cheaper and with more stuff when she bought two small boxes of mac an' cheese instead of the 'budget' size. You know, she was right. I checked prices an' product weight, an'..."

"Shut up, Shawn. My dad's lawyer is friends with Breman's lawyer, and he says she's trying to fix it so the kid can live on her own if she dies. It's sick. That little head case ought to have been locked up a long time ago. She should be eating fish sticks with her fingers in a place where all the doors lock."

A man and woman walked past the check out stands. Each of them were pushing carts that were overflowing with groceries, and the man was consulting a long list. He said, "One of those jokers got hold of the list."

"What makes you think so, Chris?" asked the woman.

The man sounded amused. "Because beer and condoms have been added to the 'staples' section."

When they had passed, Bobby snorted. "Shit, it's Holt again. What kind of a numb nuts is he--opening Camp Blood again?"

"He isn't," volunteered Shawn. "They're on the other side of the lake, and it's a training camp councilors, not actually..."

"Yeah, yeah--whatever. The guy buys enough groceries to break the back of a pack mule, then has the nerve to only tip five dollars."

Clarinda, the plump, forty-ish woman who was working the register, gave Bobby a jaundiced look. "Shut up, Barclay," she said bluntly. "You're a for shit bag boy. The only reason you're still here is because the manager owes your old man. You've ruined so much product with you're crappy bagging that you'd be paying us if the boss deducted it from your salary."

"Fuck you, cow," he snapped.

She smirked. "In your dreams, you little snot. One of these days you're going to step in shit so deep that even your family's money can't buy you out of it, and I'm going to laugh my ass off."

"Yeah? With the size of your ass, you're gonna be laughing a long, long time."

"Maybe I'll quit by the time you grow a pair of balls." Bobby grabbed his crotch. "God, I'm impressed."

"Barclay!" Bobby turned to find the shift manager watching him coldly. "If I see another display of vulgarity like that, you're out of here."

He sneered. "My father would..."

"Unless your father is holding candid kiddie porn photographs of the store owner, he'll listen to what I have to say. Now go wash your hands. Oddly enough, a lot of people object to having their food handled by someone who's just been touching his fly."

Bobby walked away, muttering obscenities, but he waited till he was out of earshot, and kept them under his breath. In the employee restroom, back by the dairy case, he ran his hands under cold water, then wiped them on his ass, smirking. Very pleased with himself, he stepped back out into the store.

Daphne Breman was standing in front of the dairy case, one hand on the cart handle, as she stared at the ranks of cartons. Bobby stared at her, remembering all the good times back in junior high. She'd been pretty much the perfect target. No one was inclined to protect her, and though she wasn't too frightened to complain to the teachers, she just flat didn't communicate, so it was all good. After her mother had taken her out of school, he'd had to find other victims, and though their whimpers had been enjoyable, they somehow didn't match Daphne's passive endurance. She was just sort of an abuse sponge. If she'd stayed within reach, there was no telling how far it would have gone.

There was no one in sight. Elsie Breman usually brought Daphne in during the quiet times. Bobby scanned the dairy aisle, then the cross aisle, and there was no one in sight. He sidled over to the girl, coming up from the side, and a little behind. He studied her for a moment. She wasn't all that much different--a little taller, her hair a little longer. He noticed that her complexion was pale and smooth, untouched by the blemishes that most of the girls her age had to fight. Her blue eyes were still blank, but they were the color of a pale summer sky. Bobby realized, much to his surprise, that Daphne Breman was rather pretty. Oh, she wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, the sort he figured he deserved, but she definitely wasn't homely.

"Hey, Daffy," he said softly. No response, but he hadn't expected one. Her hand reached out slowly and she plucked a half-gallon of 2 percent milk from the shelf, turning her eyes upon it. "You remember me, don't you, Daffy? Bobby." He poked her shoulder. "C'mon, I was in class with you for a couple of years. Hey, too bad you didn't stick through high school. You'd have been a cinch to win Girl Most Likely to Take Thorazine." He chuckled at his own joke.

Daphne placed the carton in her basket, and turned her eyes back to the shelves. This time, if you could judge from the general direction of her gaze, she was considering orange juice. Bobby studied her closer, letting his eyes drop down to assess her body. He grinned nastily. "Speaking of jugs, you grew a nice set of tits." He was reaching toward her breast. His voice was sarcastic as he said, "Does your mama let you date?"

"If you touch her, I'll have you put under the jail, you pervert." The voice was cold.

Bobby flinched, and looked around to find Elsie Breman standing at the end of a nearby aisle, a jar of pickle relish in her hands. The woman's expression was stiff, and Bobby was a little shocked to see the depth of hatred in the woman's eyes. He'd never been hated. Feared and disliked, yes, but this was actual loathing. Bobby held up his hands, palm out in a gesture of innocence. "You got the wrong idea, lady. It's not what you think. I was just giving the girl a compliment."

"If that's your idea of a compliment, I suppose I should be grateful. I doubt that with a line like that, you'll ever manage to reproduce."

"No need to be hostile," he said sullenly.

Daphne was putting a carton of orange juice in her cart. Elsie went to her, touching her arm. "Daphne, darling, you're through here. What's left? Daphne?"

"Bread," the girl said. "She said bread, bread and butter." She reached into the case and took out a box of margarine.

"Good girl. You remembered that when I didn't. But go get the bread now."

"Bread, head, red, dead." She paused. "Dead is better." She rested her other hand on the basket handle and pushed it away slowly, turning into an aisle farther down.

"You need to do something about her," said Bobby. "I'm serious, lady. She's sick."

"If you're an example of what's considered normal, then thank God my girl is special," growled Elsie.

She tossed the jar at Bobby. He jumped back with a yelp of alarm, but the container didn't come close to hitting him. It landed about a half-foot from his feet, shattering in a pungent spray of green sludge and shattered glass. "You bitch! You're just as crazy as your daughter. You tried to hit me."

"If I'd tried, you'd have a gash in your head right now." She raised her voice. "Oh, dear! Manager? Manager, clean up on the dairy aisle." She lowered her voice and said, "Leave her alone, Bobby. There are consequences to bad acts. You just haven't learned that yet--but you will." She followed Daphne, leaving Bobby to swear as he went for the broom and mop bucket.