by Jan Graham
“It’s definitely worth noting.” Steve stared at the board again. “The other thing they have in common is that no one knows where either of them live. I don’t believe in coincidences, Carlie. And those two have too much in common for it to be a coincidence.”
* * * *
Rhia sat silently waiting for Patrick to speak. If Steve’s media conference achieved nothing else, it allowed Patrick to come and see her unhindered by the principal’s demands that only certain children have access to her counseling. Patrick was nervous. He’d read the information about the scholarships and had decided he wanted help to apply. As the closing deadlines were looming, Rhia had scheduled another two appointments for him, so they could complete the forms and collect all the academic information needed to accompany them.
Some of the applications required a letter from a social worker stating that the applicant was in need of financial assistance in order to attend university. From the family income information Patrick had provided, the income of the family exceeded the limit to qualify for assistance. Rhia was waiting for Patrick to explain why he wouldn’t be able to ask his father to support him with his tuition.
“It’s not my money. It’s his. My money is what I earn at the supermarket. That’s what I live on. He doesn’t give me anything, and I need to move away, so I won’t even have my job to support me.” Patrick picked nervously at his fingernails.
“Patrick, there is a closer university that offers the same course. Why do you think you need to go away? Wouldn’t you like to be close to your family? You could even still live at home. I’m sure your mother would like you to be closer to her. I know you said you don’t get along with your dad, but surely you’d miss your mother?”
“I’ll take my mother with me. We’re both moving. I’ll make sure she comes as well.” Now Rhia was truly convinced that something was seriously wrong in Patrick’s home.
Her suspicion of abuse hadn’t been confirmed exactly but things were adding up. He needed to leave and move a distance away. Attending a university would be a legitimate excuse. He could take his mother with him, indicating the father was the reason he or they needed to leave. If he came from an abusive environment it might also explain his nervous demeanor, especially around the forceful headmistress of the school. He’d already told her he had no friends. He’d been more than interested in the domestic violence and drug brochure he’d looked at the other day. Maybe his father had a substance abuse issue and became violent in the home.
Rhia decided to change the topic of conversation. It might be easier for him to open up if she made things more general rather than speaking about the specifics of his home.
“What do you think about the drug problem and the students here being hospitalized?” Rhia didn’t expect Patrick to pale, but he did. His nervous twitching stopped, and he appeared frozen in place.
“I don’t know any of them. I don’t have an opinion.” The answer snapped from his lips.
“Most people have an opinion, Patrick. All you have to do is sit in the playground and someone is talking about what’s happened. You must have a view about drugs and drug use.”
He started fidgeting with his fingers again. “I agree with Harper…I mean, Ms. Roderick. If they’re stupid enough to take drugs then it’s their problem if they die. It’s not anyone’s fault but their own. No one’s fault. Not mine, not anyone’s.”
His answer surprised her. Apart from the fact that he used the principal’s first name, why would he think it was his fault? “I understand it’s the person’s choice, Patrick, but other people are affected when someone is killed or made sick by taking drugs.” Patrick shook his head as she spoke. “Families are affected. Mothers, sisters, fathers, friends. Some people get violent when they drink or take drugs. They can hurt others.”
“It’s still not my fault.”
Rhia wanted to reassure Patrick that his father’s behavior and any abuse in his life wasn’t Patrick’s, or his mother’s fault. The words didn’t come out though. She had the unnerving feeling that Patrick and she were talking about two different things.
“I don’t know that it’s any person’s fault. I guess if blame is apportioned then it should be to the people who manufacture and sell the drugs, not the people who fall victim to them.”
Patrick jumped out of his chair, grabbing his bag as he did. The action surprised Rhia enough to make her jump to her feet and back away from the young man. He rarely showed deep emotion, and what was reflected on his face scared her.
Patrick spat his words out in anger. “Harper is right. You don’t know anything. You’re just a stupid old ex-nun who should stay out of other people’s problems. Not everyone who makes drugs is bad. Some people that do it might have their own problems. Did you ever think of that? They might not mean to hurt people. They might just need the money. If stupid people want to buy stupid drugs they deserve what they get. Nobody forces them to buy the stuff. It’s nobody’s fault but theirs.” He grabbed the door knob as if to leave then paused, staring at the door, his tone back to normal, the sound of despair evident in it once again. “I’m sorry for yelling, I didn’t mean it. I know you think you can help, but you can’t. I don’t need to apply for the scholarships. I’ll do what she suggested instead. Thanks anyway.”
Rhia remained frozen to the spot. The change from a quiet, nervous young man into an angry one had initially scared her, but as she thought it over it didn’t surprise her too much. Victims of abuse could have extreme emotions, especially those who turned their anger inward. What he’d said confused her. She couldn’t let him leave. There was something going on in this young man’s life that filled her with a sense of terror.
“I want to help you, Patrick, and I can, but you need to tell me what’s going on.”
He still gripped the door handle, as if he wanted to leave but couldn’t. “I need money, and I know someone who can help me get it. I thought the scholarship might be a good idea, but it’s not going to work out.”
“Why do you need money?”
“So I can take my mother somewhere safe. She needs to go somewhere away from him, away from my father.”
Rhia slowly moved closer as he answered. Patrick hadn’t moved, still holding onto the door handle like it was a lifeline.
“Tell me why, Patrick. Why do you need to get her away?”
“He beats her. She’s at home in bed covered in bruises now, because of what he did last night. She won’t even go to the hospital anymore. She just goes to bed and waits to heal.”
Rhia place her hand over his on the doorknob. “Patrick, the only way for you to help her is to go to the police. I’ll help you do it. We’ll go there now and then we’ll get your mother to a hospital so she can be examined. I’ll help you find somewhere to live.” Patrick shook his head again as she spoke. “If you don’t ask the police to charge him, then no matter where you, go he’ll find you. You need the police to protect your mother and you.”
“He’ll be furious. You don’t know what he’s like.” He was correct, she didn’t know what his father was like, but she had a fair idea. A wife-beating animal who had the potential to kill Patrick’s mother and possibly him, because he thought he had the right to treat them any way he liked. His father was a man who saw his family as goods to be owned, as property, not people, with no rights of their own. Just like the husband who had killed his family in England.
“He can get as angry as he likes, Patrick. With protection for the two of you, it won’t matter how angry he gets. The police will have him under arrest.” She unfolded his fingers from the handle and held his hand in hers. “Now, do you want to help your mother?
All it took was for Patrick to begin to nod, and Rhia grabbed her purse and walked him out the door. How could no one in this little community not notice that one of their own was being abused? Patrick was more concerned to get to his mother than go to the police first. Rhia phoned the station instead and asked if someone could meet them at the farmhouse wher
e Patrick and his family lived. According to Patrick his father was working, so his mother would be the only one in the house. He was right. There was no one there but his mother. She was in her bed where Patrick knew she would be, unconscious…but still breathing.
Chapter Sixteen
Steve watched Rhia sitting with Patrick Johns in the surgery waiting room. She held his hand but neither of them spoke. The boy looked like a skeleton covered in pale skin. Steve never remembered being that thin and pale in his life. A boy who had just become a man should be robust, in his prime, about to take on the world. Patrick was none of that. He was evidence of what years of worry and violence did to a child as they grew. Steve sat down on the chair next to the young man.
“Are you okay, Patrick?”
A silent nod was Patrick’s reply.
Steve ran his fingers through his hair. Everyone at the station had always suspected there was violence in the Johns house, but no one had been able to prove it. Policing was a hard task, and without evidence criminals sometimes got away. Without a mother or child coming forward and asking for help, what happened behind closed doors very often went unnoticed.
Patrick’s father, Kevin Johns, was a pig of a man. Steve assumed that also meant the guy would be a pig of a man to live with. Kevin Johns had more assault and firearms convictions than he could count on both hands. At times he’d terrorized members of the local community. Bar fights were the cause of most police interventions where Johns was concerned.
Despite the local arrests, there had never been any reports of violence at home. Silence was a killer, and in the case of Patrick’s mother, Carmel, it nearly had. Kevin Johns was in the local lock up. He’d be there until his arraignment on Monday morning. With Kevin’s history of assaults and the testimony of Patrick and his mother once she recovered, Steve hoped the judge would refuse bail, but life wasn’t perfect, so anything could happen when the case went to court.
Once Patrick’s mother was out of surgery, and the doctors had assured Patrick she would recover, Steve and Rhia delivered him to his home. Volunteers had been organized to arrive the next day to change the household locks and put in a small security system. They had a few days before his father’s possible release from jail. Even if the man received bail after his arraignment, the domestic violence order issued against him would require he stay away from the area. Steve knew orders could be broken, but it at least gave Patrick and his mother a semblance of added safety.
Rhia remained quiet on the drive home. She’d done all she could to help the Johns family, but a heaviness and sense of unease about the situation troubled Steve.
“Are we going to your place or mine?” Steve wasn’t going to leave her in the mood she was in, but then he didn’t want to assume he was invited back to her house if she needed time alone.
“I need to go to my place. I’ll have a shower and then come over to see you later if it’s okay with you.” Not the answer he wanted, but he understood the need for solitude. She’d had an emotional day. She may just need to sit and contemplate whatever was troubling her before she talked about it. Steve decided that he’d give her a few hours alone and then make his way over to check on her, unless she came to him first.
“Whatever you need, baby. Just remember I’m only across the street. When you’re ready to talk, I’m seconds away from you.” He thought it best not to give her the option of if she wanted to talk. When she was ready at least put her on notice that he expected a discussion about what concerned her to take place. He parked her car in the drive and, after seeing her safely inside, made his way across the street.
As he approached the house the hair on the back of his neck rose. Something wasn’t right. He approached his house cautiously. He’d hardly been home for any length of time over the last few days. Most of his spare time had been spent with Rhia, at her place. His hand went to his side where the police-issue Glock 22 sat in its holster. The semi-automatic pistol was a permanent fixture during work hours, and this evening he was glad to have it. Whoever lurked inside his home had picked the wrong night to visit.
Instead of taking the stairs to the front door, he entered via the garage. The side door to the garage and the internal door leading from it unlocked using one of the wonders of modern technology, a keyless entry fingerprint device, coded to his security system. He could be inside the house and behind whoever waited for him in less time than the intruder would expect him to reach the front door.
Steve smelt the Cuban cigar the minute he entered the stairwell leading to the main part of the house. He eased his hand off the gun and smiled. Only one man he knew smoked Montecristo’s. Marcus Delany.
“Thanks for the warning. I could have blown your head off otherwise.” Steve stepped through the doorway at the tip of the hallway. A puff of smoke and flare of embers at the end of the cigar momentarily blurred the face of the man seated casually at his dining table.
“I was prepared.” Marcus held up his own weapon before returning it to the holster he wore. “I would have aimed low though, wouldn’t want to kill an old friend.”
Marcus had barely changed over the years. He was older, of course, not that it showed much. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, wearing dress denims and a white shirt that looked like they had just been pressed. The man never seemed to crease, unless you counted the few lines around his eyes. His long leather jacket was folded neatly over one of the dining chairs. Steve couldn’t see his feet but knew instinctively the outfit would be finished with Cuban- heeled leather boots. A large bottle of single malt whisky and two glasses sat on the table centered between the chair Marcus inhabited and the spare one to the left of him. Steve took up position at the table and watched as Marcus poured the rich golden liquor into the glasses.
“I liked your old house better. I did notice the view here is much nicer though.” A wry smile curved his lips. “Do you share the pretty little thing across the road, or do you keep her to yourself like you did with Kathy?”
“Do you remember what happened the last time you suggested sharing my woman?” Marcus liked to push people’s buttons. So did Steve to a certain extent, which was one reason they got along so well. The difference was Marcus took a perverse pleasure in the reactions he got, whereas Steve usually did it as an information-gathering technique.
“I believe you took the swing, and I caught your fist before impact. I’m intrigued that there’s been no repeat of the incident after my question. Maybe you’re not as serious about this one. Invite her over, and we’ll have an enjoyable night.” The muscle at the side of Steve’s face flinched. “So you are serious about her. Well good for you. You deserve a nice woman to warm your bed. Even with a discount, it must have cost you a fortune going to Mercedes’s little whorehouse as often as you did.”
“Point taken, Marcus. I know you keep track of people you think might be of use to you. Even those you refer to as friends.” Steve meant what he said. It was better to be friends with Marcus Delany. Even as a friend the man could sometimes be abrasive.
Marcus raised his glass as if to indicate touché, then lowered it, taking a long sip.
“You know me well, my friend. Of course, you’re right, apart from catching up with you. I do have a favor to ask. It’s not something that you’ll find a hardship.”
Steve eyed Marcus warily. He had known he’d get a visit from him at some stage. Talking to Bethany the other day had assured it. He assumed the visit would be a reminder, a simple “don’t mention anything to anyone” sort of thing. Now it appeared to be more.
“What is it you need?” He wasn’t afraid to ask. His friend wouldn’t expect him to do anything illegal. That wasn’t how he worked. Marcus might be a mercenary, but everything he did was sanctioned by a government body. Well, usually sanctioned. He had been known to take on a few damsel-in-distress type jobs over the years. In those cases, payment was usually negotiable, especially if the damsel was a good looking one.
“I fear for Bethany when I’m not here
. I want someone I can trust to look out for her. Someone she can call who’ll respond with the full force of his protective instincts and the law behind him.”
“What have you gotten her involved in, Marcus?”
“I’ve been asked to investigate a sex slave operation. Young woman are being offered work overseas as nannies and end up disappearing. It’s suspected that once they arrive at their destination, they’re sold as sex slaves. Bethany is gathering information on the contacts here. I’m about to go to set up home overseas and attempt to make a purchase. Needless to say, I’ll be out of the country, as will a number of my crew. I need someone here to protect Beth.” A worried look crossed Marcus’s face. “It’s getting more dangerous than first anticipated. One of the missing women turned up dead.”
“Consider it done. On one condition…you pull her from the operation ASAP.”
“Don’t worry, Steve, this will be her last assignment. I can’t remove her now, it would raise suspicion, but believe me this is the last. She’s too precious to endanger like this.” Marcus poured another dink and swiftly drank it. “I fear I’ve become too attached to Bethany to lose her. I trust you to keep her safe until this is over.”
Steve looked at Marcus in amazement. He had never heard his friend say he’d become attached to anyone. The expression on his face indicated it was much more than a simple liking of Bethany. If Steve was correct in his assumption, Marcus had fallen for her hook, line, and sinker.
