Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(55)

“Sweet Jesus,” Tom sighed again, understanding now why the boy lied. Anybody who’d gone through such a thing would of course lie; not just lie, but run like hell to get loose from the devil dogging his heels. A man could spend a lifetime trying to escape things from which there was no escaping. But Tom knew that sometimes all you got for your trouble was a bunch of bad memories.

“If you got any knowledge as to where he went…”

“Not right off,” Tom answered. “But I know he was headed for his grandpa’s place over on the mainland.”

“That’s like looking for a raindrop in a river,” Mahoney sighed.

“It was one of those little towns west of Richmond,” Tom said. “The address was written on an envelope…” Tom closed his eyes and pictured the boy pulling the envelope from his pocket, but he couldn’t focus in on the scribbled return address. “I remember helping the kid find it on the map—Wernersville, Waterboro, Wyattstown—it was someplace like that; give me a day or so and I’ll have the name for you.”

Mahoney, eager for even the smallest bit of information, quickly volunteered to drive down for a face to face talk with Tom. “I’ll see you day after tomorrow,” he said. After he hung up he called Sam Cobb, “I’ve got a line on the boy,” he said, “and being you were in on the start of this, I thought you might want to come along.”

“Sure,” Cobb replied, for he liked the prestige of working with a detective and didn’t often get the chance. “’Course, I doubt he’s gonna tell us what really happened…”

“You never know,” Mahoney answered, “you just never know.”





Olivia

Sometimes when I look at Ethan Allen, I can see Charlie looking back at me from inside those blue eyes. It’s amazing how much the boy resembles his grandfather; yet there’s a world of difference in their personalities. Charlie was open-hearted and full of fun; but this boy is the exact opposite. It might be because he’s got so many hurts locked inside of him; but still, you’d think he’d be more receptive to my kindness. That’s not the way it is. The more I try to get close to him, the harder he pulls to get away. I genuinely feel for the child, but I swear to God, he’s almost impossible to understand.

And, that mouth of his—why, it’s enough to make a sailor blush!

Despite what I might think, Ethan Allen is Charlie’s only grandchild, so I’m trying to do right by him. At first, I figured us spending time together would encourage the boy to loosen up about his family, but getting him to talk is worse than trying to milk a stone. I’m sure he’s got relatives somewhere; people who’d love to take both him and his dog. That would probably be for the best. An orphaned child belongs with blood relatives; not some stranger who happened to marry his grandfather. I’m no relation whatsoever, the boy deserves better than that.





Thickening of Blood

Olivia saw the look on the boy’s face as he stomped out the front door and recognized it right off—how could she have not? It was the same wild-eyed frenzy she’d seen in her own mirror just after Charlie died. For a while she’d been tricked into believing it to be sorrow; so she cried buckets and buckets of tears. Then it masqueraded itself as anger, and she raged—hurtling things against the walls and kicking at the furniture. Finally, on that stormy night when there was nothing left but the roar of the ocean and the agony of loneliness, she came to know it for what it really was—fear. The kind of fear that chewed holes in a person’s heart—holes so cavernous, every last drop of hope leaked out and left them believing they’d never again be safe, never again be loved. Olivia felt a thin line of perspiration sliding down her back. It was strange how, when you thought yourself free of such memories, they could fly back and slap against your face like a sudden rainstorm.

After she’d picked up the pieces of the Baltimore Orioles puzzle he’d scattered across the floor, Olivia looked at the clock; it was almost nine-thirty, Ethan Allen had been gone two hours. He’d stormed off without a sweater or jacket and this was the time of year when it turned downright cold once the sun had set. It would seem reasonable, she thought, that he’d have come home by now, but of course reasonableness was the last thing a person concerned themselves with in situations such as this. A strange sort of regret began pressing down on Olivia’s shoulders, settling over her like a sack of stones. I should have been more understanding, she told herself; I should have waited until he was ready to tell whatever he has to tell.

For a good part of her life, Olivia had swallowed down her own painful secrets, she’d choked back words that needed to be spoken, and stepped aside as life rolled by. She’d bottled herself up like a person already cremated; which, in looking back, was a thing she wouldn’t wish on anybody, especially a child. Still, if the boy wasn’t ready to let go of his troubles, it was downright mean to keep poking at him. The secrets hidden in a person’s heart could be like a persimmon—bite into them before they’re ready to be plucked loose and the bitterness will turn your mouth inside out. Olivia went to the window, parted the curtains and stood watching for the boy to come home. Further down the street was dark, hidden by overhanging branches and shadows of buildings; but directly beneath the window was a watery circle of yellow illumination where she would be able to see him. He has to come along this walkway, she told herself as she watched and waited. She could already feel the chill of night air pressing up against the windowpane. “It’s getting cold,” she sighed, “he’ll be back, just as soon as his bones start rattling.” …maybe not, the voice inside her head argued, maybe he’ll never come back.