Love Hurts

by J. J. Keller

He cut branches of nearby shrubs and covered the large square hood of the truck. They didn’t take the time to hide the large bed in the back. Besides, the rust and green kind of blended in with the trees. The woody scent of evergreens and earth surrounded them.

  “See, what did I tell you? The buggy has quiet power and got us over untried trails. We’ll be closer for when we grab Justin. Faster getaway.”

  Morgan glanced at his father’s face, slightly red from the exertion. “Our goal is to locate Justin. Hopefully we can take him away without gunfire. The cops are not going to be happy getting their intel second hand while we took control.” He wiped a loose leaf from his forehead. “Justin was scared. I just want him to be safe. Hopefully, we’ll be able to have him reunited with Shania as she wakes.”

  He thought of her lying pale and weak in a hospital bed and his chest pumped a fast as the whooshing of air through the pine trees.

  “My recommendation is to head due south. Keeping in the perimeter, scout the area.”

  Morgan nodded. “Good idea, keep an eye on the windows to see if Justin is in one particular room.”

  “If he doesn’t show, one of us will need to sneak inside. Do you think Beck hired people to guard them?” Mark pressed his shoulder hostler, tucking the leather under his arm. He shoved a hand into his pocket, jingling spare bullets.

  “I doubt it, he’s too arrogant. I’m going in. You’d be better as the sharpshooter if one is needed.” Morgan sheathed a hunting knife and removed his locksmith kit. In case he needed to open a few doors, he withdrew a few picks and Ls.

  “I’ll go north, and we’ll meet back in here, let’s say in twenty minutes at ten thirty AM.” Morgan glanced at the sun hidden behind thick gray clouds to get an idea of where they’d be most vulnerable.

  “Go, we need to be quick. Get in and out before they realize something’s up.” Mark started walking with an agility Morgan hadn’t seen in some time. No doubt his father felt at a loss without his practice. He probably wanted to keep busy, to feel needed. He had been very good with Justin.

  “What do you think about starting a kid’s camp in the west forest? Teach them how to survive in the wild?”

  Mark smiled. “’Cause you did so well, I should teach others?”

  “It took with me, but my interest went elsewhere. I’ve seen how you interact with Justin and the neighbor’s three hoodlums. Children are relaxed around you. You could help them, make the kids feel empowered.”

  His father lifted an eyebrow, as if debating the idea. “We’ll see.”

  They came to cross-paths. “You go that way. We’ll meet back here in twenty. Do not talk on your cell. If something goes wrong, fire into the air.”

  The .38 special attached to his leg felt heavy. The weapons were a necessary evil, because if he had to, he’d drop and extract the gun. Reluctant to hurt another, he’d shoot into a body if necessary, whatever it took to get his son back. “Got it.”

  Morgan took off running, keeping on a deer trail. He finally saw the log cabin. Aged to a dark whiskey, the two-story structure stood out like a beacon in the afternoon light. Within range to see through the windows, he knelt behind an oak tree. He removed a pair of binoculars, as small as opera glasses. The images were fuzzy --but he didn’t need more.

  He struck a view in the upstairs room, getting only a sliver of the side of a person. The darkness inside failed to provide a true likeness. Morgan rolled the focus and repositioned on a window at the ground level, close to the front entrance. Beck’s parents were sitting at a table. She held a short glass, half-filled with liquid. A frown marred her face. Mr. Longview pounded his hand on the table.

  Morgan stepped to the other side of the tree. Lifting the binoculars he narrowed the lens on the next casement. Empty. Damn. He slipped the visual aid into his pocket. Jumping around tangled vines and sidestepping chuck holes, he jogged a few feet north to the next set of windows. One small pane and a transom, narrow and long. It wouldn’t provide him a clue as to what was inside. He whipped the mini-telescopes from his pack and focused on the three-foot dormer. By the shower pipes above the curtain, it was a bathroom.

  At the sound of a motor, he shifted to the side of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Longview were driving down the lane. Great, just what Morgan needed, for them to be out of the picture while he reclaimed his child. He held the binoculars in his hand and continued forward, scraping his hands as he shoved branches to the side. His breath stopped as he ground his feet in the tracks. The entire backside of the house was open apertures, rising twenty feet into sheltered tree lined sky. Morgan shoved the eyepiece to his face, picking up the shadowed outline of his father on the opposite side, a glimpse only. He was well hidden and wouldn’t be noticed.

  The stench of a dead animal made him gag. He covered his mouth. On a tiny trail was a half-eaten, partially decayed, small woodland creature. From the remains he couldn’t determine if it was a raccoon or a groundhog. Five feet in front of him, a three trunked birch raised high into the air. The scaly white and grayish skin had shed, leaving its ruins on the ground. He glanced around the clearing near the house. The view would be perfect. He ran behind the trunk. His clothes blended with the colors, shielding him, providing an excellent view of the cabin.

  Lifting the binoculars, he scanned the rooms from East to West. Movement appeared in the far corner, closest to his father. Morgan twisted the dials, drawing the profiles near, forcing them into fuzzy silhouettes. Because of size and shape he recognized Justin. He ran around a kitchen table, throwing bits of paper as he circled, acting as a three-year-old would but completely out of his own personal character. Beck threw open a door and shoved Justin onto the patio. Justin crossed his arms at his chest. The prospect of snow made the temperature damn cold and Beck forced the boy into the chilly morning air without a coat.

  Morgan shoved the binoculars into his pocket and crept through the woods, getting closer to the terrace, hoping they would stay outside. He needed to take a risk and rescue his son.

  “Listen, kid, you’re in my care now and it’s going to go my way or you’re going to spend a lot of time under my hand.” Beck smacked his palms together. Justin dropped to the deck. Falling onto wooden slats, wet leaves splat as his rear hit the surface. Murky spatters of mud shot into the air.

  “I want my mommy.”

  “Tough, kid, your mommy’s dead. Now get up, you’re going to paint a picture for your Nanna and grandfather.”

  Justin’s sobs rang through the trees, bouncing off the bark and echoing in the now totally overcast sky. Big fat tears rolled down his cheeks. Morgan wanted to rush forward to grab Justin and shoot the man holding him hostage. He didn’t believe in violence, but he wanted to pierce Beck’s heart with a bullet.

  “Mommy’s not dead, Daddy’s coming to take me to her,” Justin shouted and jumped to his feet. He took off running through the shrub border, directly in line with Mark. The boxwoods blocked Justin from view.

  Beck shouted, “You brat, I am your fucking father.” He walked to the edge of the bricks. “Get back here.”

  Morgan ran. Justin was fast, at least two yards in front of Beck. Justin disappeared into a line of white pine trees.

  Beck swiveled, drawing a gun from the waistband in the groove of his back. He crouched, anticipating attack. Morgan didn’t plan to disappoint him.

  “Well, if it isn’t the big bad businessman.” Beck straightened to a firm stance.

  “Drop the gun. Nobody needs to get hurt. We’ll take Justin and leave.” Morgan glanced at the trees, noticing a flash of light. Morris code. Damn, he wished he could remember the meaning of the dots and dashes.

  “Regardless what the birth certificate says, he’s my kid, not yours. He stays.” Beck held the weapon in front of him, both hands gripping the handle.

  “No, Justin’s my son and I don’t take it lightly when someone steals him from me.” Morgan knelt and drew his .38 from the ankle holster. His aim was direct. His father taught him well: Shoot to kill
.

  Beck frowned, then scratched his chin. “The kid does look like your sister.”

  Morgan didn’t say anything, focusing on Beck’s face instead, waiting, watching for the slightest indication he’d shoot. Morgan needed to drag out the conversation, providing adequate time for his father to get Justin out of the area.

  “You fucked her, didn’t you? Did you think I hadn’t noticed your attention to my girl, especially playing nursemaid when she got sick from the kegger.” He waved the pistol. “That’s when you banged her.”

  “The night you fucked the Cooke twins, you mean?”

  Beck, the idiot, smiled. “I knew you’d screwed her. Sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. Called her at your little business, recorded our conversation. I replay it to beat off. I taught her, you know. She sucked at fucking, but once she learned how to talk dirty--”

  “Shut-up!” Morgan fought the urge to damn him to hell. Shoot, his mind shouted. Instead he shoved the gun between his belt and camouflage pants. He stepped forward, and plowed his fist into Beck’s face.

  Beck went down, pistol waving. Before he hit the ground, he used his free hand to push upright.

  As much as his instinct demanded he shoot, Morgan couldn’t. “Justin’s my child. Shania and I are getting married. I expect you to leave us alone. Don’t come near either of them again.”

  Morgan turned. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Beck was a coward and wouldn’t shoot. However, Beck actually went to boot camp. Morgan could very well be dead in the next few minutes.

  Gunfire sounded. Morgan fell to the ground. He rolled, but didn’t feel burning pain as he’d expected. His fingers clutched the handle of the pistol, trigger finger on the release. A trickle of blood formed on his left side. The river of crimson ran harder, faster, as he sat upright. He pointed his weapon in Beck’s direction.

  Boots landed heavy on the deck. A touch of brown came into his peripheral vision. “Sir, are you okay?”

  “Yes.” Morgan plopped onto the sod. The danger was over. Pain ripped through him. He glanced at his wound. A dark hole, almost perfect in shape, had gone through his jacket. Blood gushed onto the ground.

  The cop leaned and threw Morgan’s jacket back and lifted the shirt with the tip of his rifle. “Clean through.” He touched the walkie-talkie on his shoulder holster. “Get the doctor up here. Man down and…”

  He stepped forward, knelt beside Beck’s inert body. Two fingers went to the neck. A few minutes passed and he said, “Another dead.”

  With unsteady hands Morgan lowered his cold gun. Sweat beaded his forehead. He had to ignore the dizziness and remain alert. His father would be worried. He had to be strong for Justin…and Shania. Darkness invaded.

  * * * *

  “Morgan?”

  “Daddy?” Fingers shook his arm.

  “Justin, be careful, Daddy has a needle in that arm.”

  Shania.

  Starch and sterile scents of a hospital seeped into his nostrils.

  She was awake. He wanted to open his eyes. Heavy. Pain burned into his side.

  The crunch of the bed and movement brought milk-scented breath close. Moist lips touched his cheek, and then another larger set pressed against his forehead.

  He lived. Shania had woken. Justin was safe with them. They were a family again.

  Chapter 19

  Shania propped her hand on the apartment doorframe, holding steady as she slipped on a cream-tinted heel.

  “Justin, are you nervous?” Megan asked, at least for the third time.

  “No.” He tugged at his tie.

  “Want to try the artist pose again?”

  “No.” He scooted, snug against the sofa’s cushions.

  “What’s an artist pose?” Shania asked as she carefully migrated through the toys spread around the living room. She bent to collect a Matchbox car off the floor, wobbling as she did so. She’d worn flat shoes for so long she anticipated falling from the gained height straight onto her face.

  “Show her, Justin,” Megan persisted. Tonight her hair was black with crimson streaks. She claimed the color red was for good luck. However, the new shock of ruby also provided an excuse for a new piercing. A silver bar slid through her lower lip, with a garnet ball at the end.

  “No.” He crossed his arms.

  “That’s okay. Do you need to use the restroom before we go?” Shania asked. His grumpiness could have been a result of fussiness. Morgan hadn’t contacted them for a few days. He recovered in record time from his injury, then resumed his active work schedule. Yesterday was to be his last hectic day. Vacation started today.

  “No.” Justin bounced his legs against the cushions.

  Megan rolled her eyes.

  A pout formed on his face.

  “You don’t have to talk, but you should be nice and smile.” Shania walked to the mirror and placed her pearl earrings in her lobes.

  “Will Daddy come?” Justin’s voice held a hint of fear and sadness. Despite how much time passed since the incident at Morgan’s parents’ home, the kidnapping continued to bother him, keeping him up with nightmares. Last night he’d had another one, awaking twice thereafter from a restless sleep. Shania reassured him the bad man wouldn’t get him again, and Morgan was his only father. Someday she’d have to explain the Longviews to Justin. She feared them petitioning for visiting rights, but Shania’s attorney assured her that their involvement in the kidnapping would prevent them from ever being alone with him.

  “Yes, honey. He said he’d be there.” She swallowed the knot that caught in her throat thinking of the danger he’d put himself in to find Justin. Blinking back tears, she pivoted, pretending to smooth the silk dress. “Megan, thanks for arranging my hair. The fluffy fullness looks classy.”

  Megan cocked her head. “The style is perfect for hiding your scar.”

  Shania glanced at her. An angry frown marred her beautiful features. Megan threatened to cut Beck’s testicles off, until Shania reassured her he’d never bother them again. “Will the curls stay like this all night?”

  “Don’t let your hunky man run his fingers through it, and you’ll be fine.” Megan laughed.

  “Is your mother coming?” Shania removed Justin’s new fleece jacket and her wrap from the coat rack. She tossed Justin’s garment to Megan.

  “She’ll be late, but she’ll be there. I’m taking photos.” Megan caught Justin’s coat. She coaxed him off the sofa, tickled him, and slipped his arms into the dark blue sleeves. Clever.

  Shania anticipated the cream-tinted wrap on top of an off-white dress would be a mistake. One sticky hand print from Justin, and she’d have a stain for the rest of the night. Yet she couldn’t resist buying the garment. According to Megan, the light material made her skin appear pearl in tone, with a slight blush showing from underneath. Megan helped her apply makeup to enhance the essence. Shania’s queasy stomach rumbled. Would she embarrass herself by vomiting?

  She pulled on her gloves. An exhale didn’t ease her anxiety. “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Do you feel sick?” Megan asked.

  “You promised you’d take me to buy a Christmas tree,” Justin whined.

  “Yes, I told you I would and I will.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m not sick. I’m excited for you.”

  He frowned. She’d upset him.

  “I’m really excited for people to see your artwork.” She shot him a smile.

  “I’ll show you,” he declared.

  Shania glanced at him. Show her what?

  He shoved his tiny chin into the air, side-view, head tossed back, and tucked a hand on his hip, with his other palm upright, elbow bent.

  Shania chuckled. Megan chortled.

  “I’m not so nervous now,” Shania said, restraining the mirth, not wanting to embarrass him.

  “Better?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “Yes,” she answered, then kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Ready?” She held out her ha
nd. He placed his tiny fingers against her palm.

  * * * *

  “Justin’s a natural. It helps that he’s articulate and can speak about art.” Monsieur Barrett handed her a glass of champagne. Elevator music played softly in the background, currently Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On.

  Shania glanced around the gallery. Oil and acrylic paintings from body parts to landscape lined the walls. Metal, ceramic and other mediums held places on pedestals or directly on the floor. The charcoal collection, sectioned off due to the nature of the art, was in a separate room.

  Megan stood guard over Justin. Shania and Monsieur Barrett entered the space where Justin’s work was displayed. The studio owner, Jim Caraway, ran in front of them almost tromping on Monsieur Barrett’s toes. Caraway ran his bony hand through his equally thinning hair. Spikes of gray wires stood on end.

  “I need to talk to you about the miniature charcoal. It’s signed J under the books, and the name on the contract is illegible. We have an offer of two thousand dollars for the sketch.” He slapped the sides of his face. “Can you believe it? Immature work but excellent in its simplicity.”

  “The work is magnificent,” Monsieur Barrett replied.

  “Then tell me where the artist is, and I’ll present him with an offer.” He clasped his hands together. His loafer shod feet shuffled forward and backward. Tassels on top of his shoes bounced from side to side.

  Monsieur Barrett looked at her with eyebrows raised. “Let’s wait until the press gets here.”

  Two thousand was a lot of money for an unknown artist and a small charcoal sketch. Good heavens, the amount was so large if added to her savings, she and Justin would be set for the next year. She could graduate debt free. No, she couldn’t sell her son’s first drawing, Justin was proud of his work. He expected it to be placed above the television. She couldn’t sell his charcoal just to make her life easier.

  “I can’t sell it,” she stated.

  “Are you the artist?” Mr. Caraway bristled to the point the few white hairs on his chin stood at attention. The curator’s short stature didn’t stop him from looking down his nose at her.