Thread of Deceit by Catherine Palmer Page B

“sicko.” Well, they were wrong. What he did wasn’t perverse or strange—it was simply who he was. He was created this way, a unique and special human being—and how could anyone say that was wrong?
    He never hurt anyone. His so-called “victims,” as the prison therapists had put it, weren’t bothered by what he did. They welcomed it. In a way, he was helping them, awakening them, and teaching them things they would need to know later in life. It wasn’t as though he got that much out of his “crime” anyway. His own pleasure lasted just a short time, and then he was forced to spend weeks preparing for it all over again.
    The trouble was that no one was as smart as he. People were fools. They imagined their sex offender lists would deter him. How naive. He had simply left the state and changed his identity. Easy enough. He had contacts everywhere. His clients were respectable businessmen who worked in high-level positions. They had made his transition flawless. The authorities had no idea how effortless it was to elude them. Just thinking of this, he felt his anger grow. Idiots! He grabbed the curtain and gave it a jerk. He had intended to close it, but the fabric tore loose from the pins that held the pleats to the rod.
    There! he thought, staring up at the dangling drape. That was exactly the kind of thing that infuriated him! Carelessness. Stupidity. People didn’t do things the right way. Someone had failed to properly secure the curtain, just as Stu had failed to set up the safeguards.
    Sinking down onto the floor, he held his head in his hands. He thought he was going to vomit.

    “Why not, Carl?” Ana set her palms on the city editor’s desk and leaned across it. She could hardly believe it was already Thursday, and she had only six workdays left to complete her assignment. Most of the previous afternoon had been eaten up with her fruitless visits to Haven and Jim Slater’s house. Though she had interviewed health workers, day care supervisors, a variety of public agencies, church youth ministers and the operators of two city recreation centers, the series was not coming together well.
    She had worked hard on the stories, trying one angle and then another. But as the hours passed, Ana only grew more convinced that the children —and not the lead paint—needed to be the focus of the series. More important, she felt certain that something was going on behind the scenes at Haven.
    Her news nose was rarely wrong, and it was telling her that she was onto a very smelly trail. A frightened child hiding in a corner, a little girl with a fresh bruise on her cheek, guard dogs and a man too free with his affection—Terell Roberts stood out like a blinking beacon on a dark night.
    How could Ana ignore an investigation with such news value? Worse, how could she abandon the victims of a possible predator? Despite her trepidation about confronting and pushing Carl Webster—aware the editor could very well fire her and send her back to Brownsville—Ana knew she could not rest if she didn’t at least try.
    “It’s the children,” she told him. “They should be the center of attention in these articles.”
    Carl rubbed his eyes. “Lead paint, Ana,” he said wearily. “That’s your story. Contaminated paint.”
    “Who cares about paint? You said it yourself— children draw readers. This series has everything, don’t you see? The potential for gripping photos. Sidebars on individual victims of lead paint poisoning—I have an interview set up at Barnes Hospital tomorrow morning. It’ll be compelling, Carl. Just give me another week, and I’ll write a package of stories guaranteed to tug on readers’ hearts.”
    “Stories that would make strong contest entries. Isn’t that what you mean, Ana? You’re still trying to win awards when what I want is good, solid coverage of an issue affecting this city.”
    She straightened. “Fine, if all you want is paint, that’s what I’ll give you. But then no