by Whitley Gray
The graveyard shift.
A tingle went up Zach’s neck, and he whipped around. Deserted. There was no one in sight.
“What’s wrong?” Beck shoved his right hand inside his jacket near his weapon.
Zach twisted, scanning for movement, listening. Quiet. There wasn’t so much as the jingle of car keys.
The shadows behind the columns seemed ominous. And the gloom beneath the cars. And the recesses in the corners. His chest tightened. The garage would make an excellent location for an ambush. “I could’ve sworn we were being watched.”
“I don’t see anyone.” Beck inspected the space around them.
Tires squealed somewhere in the structure. Despite the cold creep on Zach’s neck, the cars around them remained stationary. No one leaped out, armed with a dagger.
Zach huffed a frustrated sigh. “Sorry. I felt like…” Like someone is out there. “Like we were being watched.”
“We are.” Beck nodded at the ceiling. “Surveillance cameras everywhere.”
Not exactly reassuring. It made Zach glad he had a license to carry. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Amen to that.”
* * * *
A day from hell. Flames and all. As Beck swung into the driveway, the headlights washed over the porch and the figure huddled there.
Not tonight. Beck gritted his teeth. Be patient. As he headed up the front sidewalk, the figure stood up.
“Hey, Artie. It’d be good if you called first when you want to see Butterscotch—”
Artie hiccuped and grabbed on to Beck. Tears broke loose. The kid shook as he bawled, ugly heart-wrenching sobs. Dampness soaked into Beck’s shirt. Fuck. Something was really wrong. Art sounded like the world had imploded. Like when his dad had died.
Beck tipped the boy’s head up. Even in the dark, the swollen eyes were visible. “Let’s get you inside, kiddo.”
With Artie hanging on to him, Beck dug out his keys and got the front door open. The boy peeled away and made for the guest bathroom. That’s probably what he needs, a little communing with the cat. Beck flipped the lock, clicked on a lamp, and went to the kitchen. Where had Zach put the kid snacks?
Artie reappeared, cradling the kitten like a baby. The hiccups had subsided into shaky breaths, but his face had the blotchy look of prolonged tears. The pain there made Beck’s chest ache. So young to be so miserable.
After Dan had died, that face had made regular appearances. Beck had struggled for months with guilt over surviving—no one had depended on him like Marybeth and the boys had depended on Dan. As Dan lay dying, he’d made Beck swear to watch over his family. Some days it was harder than others.
Beck pulled two bottles of water from the fridge and set them on the table. “Pull up a chair, Art.”
Artie sat. The boy’s coppery hair stuck up in spikes, and his knees were dirty. There was none of the usual confidence. He rubbed the cat’s neck and got a rumbling purr.
Beck kept his voice friendly. “What’s going on?”
Artie’s hand shook as his fingers followed the contours of the kitten’s spine.
Let him fill the silence. That was what the shrinks touted. Beck cracked open his water, took a sip, and waited.
“Joe’s never coming back,” Artie whispered. “His dads say Denver isn’t a safe place for them.”
“I’m so sorry.” Beck leaned forward, forearms on his thighs and hands folded together. “I know you really like him.”
“They have as much right to live here as anyone else. Everything was good, and then someone threw a rock. Why haven’t the police found who did it?”
“It’s complicated.” More like convoluted. Beck brought his water to his lips.
“That’s what Mom always says when she doesn’t want to explain something, like where babies come from.”
Beck choked. “I don’t suppose your mom knows you’re here.”
“No. This is her school night.”
Marybeth took a class at a local technical college once a week. She’d decided to become a medical transcriptionist and work to supplement Dan’s pension. After the mortgage debacle last year, Beck thought it was a good decision. “Does your sitter know you’re here?”
A tear spilled over. Artie’s lower lip wobbled.
Oh, no. Something triggered this. “What’s going on?”
Artie shook his head and ducked his face to his arm. “There was no place else I could go, Beck. Please let me stay. Please.”
“I need to know what happened,” Beck said in a soft voice. “You trust me?”
The boy gave one shallow nod, red-rimmed eyes begging for understanding.
Beck scooted forward until he and Artie were knee to knee. “Please tell me what’s wrong, buddy. I won’t get mad. Scout’s honor.”
The whisper carried desperation. “Things are bad again.”
Things? What things? There had to be more to it than—Shit. “Who’s at home with Pete?”
Artie took a deep breath. “Aubrey.”
* * * *
Denver’s evening rush hour started around three and wrapped up at eight. The car beside Zach suddenly cut in front of him, and he narrowly avoided a collision. Jesus. He’d love to have a marked cruiser and a ticket book right now. Denverites drove like kamikazes.
Good thing he’d belted in the turkey meat loaf and fixings he’d scored at the grocery store. The car smelled like comfort-food nirvana. Two plates, flatware, and boom! Dinner was served. The exit came up on his right; he steered off the highway and turned for home.
The house was ablaze with light. Huh. After a day like today, Beck usually wanted to eat, fuck, and sleep. Zach parked, grabbed the food, and headed for the kitchen door.
It was locked. As Zach fumbled for the house key, the door swung open.
“Hey.” Beck held open the screen door. He whispered, “We’ve got company.”
So much for eat, fuck, and sleep. Under his breath, Zach asked, “Who’s the guest?”
“Artie.”
Zach paused, juggling bags. The rich aroma of meat loaf and mashed potatoes made his mouth water. At least “eat” was still on the menu. “Isn’t it a school night?”
“Yeah. Marybeth is at class, and she left the boys with Nance.”
“I thought he was history.” After the cat episode, Zach had believed Aubrey was gone for good.
“Me too. Artie said their regular babysitter bailed, and it was too late to get anyone else. So she ran next door and asked him.”
Why? It was clear Aubrey wasn’t good for the boys. “That makes no sense.”
“She’s apparently seen him a couple of times.” Beck shook his head. “I don’t understand either.”
“Did he just let Artie leave?” Or had the asshole put the kid in a cab and sent him off?
“No. Nance brought gifts for Pete but sent Art to his room. Artie jumped out his bedroom window and took off. He got here by taxi. I texted Marybeth and asked her to stop by after class.”
“Okay.” Zach lifted the paper sacks. “Does he need a meal?”
“He’s had dinner.” Beck eyed the meal hungrily. “I can wait until after the visit.”
“There’s plenty here. He can have a second dinner or dessert while we eat. I’m about brain-dead from hypoglycemia.” Zach carried the bags into the kitchen.
Artie sat at the table, stroking a sleeping Butterscotch. “Hi, Zach.”
“Hey, Art.” Zach put on a welcoming smile. “How’s it going?”
Chin in the air, Artie said, “I’ve been better.”
I’ll bet you have. “Hungry?”
“No, thanks. My mom made mac and cheese before she had to leave.” The boy’s face reddened. “She was running late because of Gabby.”
“Gabby?” Zach set out food cartons while Beck laid the table.
“Our babysitter. Really she’s just there for Pete, ’cause I don’t need a sitter.” Artie shrugged. “Mom says I can’t watch him, so Gabby comes.”
&nb
sp; Feeling like a busybody, Zach asked, “Your mom is seeing Mr. Nance again?”
Artie’s expression turned wary. “Yeah.”
“I thought they’d separated.” The confusion was plain on the boy’s face. Nice technical term, Littman. “Broke up, I mean.”
“They did. For about a day.” Artie scowled. “Aubrey said he didn’t mean it about the cat, and that I’d overreacted and needed to toughen up. Mom let him come back.”
Aubrey was a manipulator; he’d lie to get who and what he wanted. Clearly Artie recognized the fact even if he couldn’t put it into words. Aubrey had moved in on Marybeth last winter when she was still vulnerable after Dan’s death. He’d wormed his way in deep if he could sell her on that line of bullshit.
“What did your mom say?” Zach pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and joined them at the table.
Artie flushed. “I wasn’t supposed to hear. I was in the hallway listening.”
Beck frowned as he served meat loaf and potatoes. Zach wasn’t sure how to proceed: encourage eavesdropping or reinforce respect of privacy?
“I know I shouldn’t have listened,” Artie rushed to explain, “but I swear it was self-defense. I didn’t know if he was going to talk Mom into something. I don’t trust him, so I listened.”
Beck paused in the midst of lifting a forkful of meat loaf. “And?”
“She told him it was just a big misunderstanding, that she knew he wouldn’t drown the cat, but she wouldn’t punish me for coming here with Butterscotch.” Artie didn’t look convinced. “Mom does time-out or loss of privileges. Aubrey does spanking or sitting in the basement with no light. I don’t want him to choose if he babysits.”
Beck’s expression darkened, and he opened his mouth. Zach kicked him under the table; Beck’s eyebrows shot up, but he closed his mouth.
Artie continued. “If they ever get married, I’m going to be spending a lot of time in the dark.”
Corporal punishment. Was that just the beginning? Had Aubrey hit the kids? While Zach mulled it over, he offered a white bakery bag to Artie.
The boy glanced inside, and his eyes widened. “Are…are those raspberry-filled sugar cookies?”
“They are,” Zach said in a serious voice.
“Can I— May I have one?”
“You may.” Zach pushed a napkin toward Art. “Butterscotch can’t have any.”
Artie laughed.
For a couple of minutes there was only the sound of hungry men and a gangly boy enjoying their food. To Zach it felt like the family dinner nights of his youth: pass the potatoes…you’ve got gravy on your chin…guess what happened at school… Hell, this might be the most relaxed Artie had been in days.
It wouldn’t last, though. Marybeth would take the kid home, Aubrey would continue his malicious behavior, and Artie would hit the breaking point and run to Beck. And Beck had to be Art’s safe place, because the street was extremely dangerous for kids Art’s age.
Nance represented a danger to Marybeth and the kids—at the very least a psychological one, and maybe something darker. The man played favorites to an extreme; he liked Pete and spoiled him, but banished Art. Ultimately Art would withdraw. Lack of attention would lead to resentment and depression.
What would it take to convince Marybeth that Aubrey was a malignant force?
* * * *
“I don’t think he’s overreacting.” From the front porch, Beck glanced through the screen door to where Artie sat with Zach and Butterscotch at the kitchen table. The kid was on his third cookie. Outside, the air was cool and smelled of grilled meat from somewhere in the neighborhood.
“Aubrey isn’t the monster you’re making him out to be.” Marybeth had her chin in the air, expression defiant. “Artie is jealous, that’s all. He’d gotten used to being the man of the family, and now he’s trying to oust Aubrey. There was never a real plan to injure the cat, Beck.”
Did she not see the look on her kid’s face when Aubrey was around? That wasn’t jealousy—that was wariness and fear. “I think it’s real, and the guy is trying to minimize his actions to get back in your good graces.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she spluttered.
“Listen. I think it goes beyond the cat.” Beck took a deep breath. “I’m worried he’s hurting Artie, both emotionally and physically.”
“That’s insane.” She shot a look into the house and frowned. “I suppose he told you his ‘Aubrey hit me with a paddle’ story.”
Art had never come right out and admitted physical abuse. Beck’s gut clenched. “No, as a matter of fact. Has Aubrey hit him?”
Marybeth rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Art wants attention, so he makes up these stories to get it.”
Artie was a lot of things, but an attention-seeking liar wasn’t one of them. “Marybeth, Aubrey terrifies your son. I saw Art’s face. He’s not making up stories. He’s scared of Aubrey.”
“He’s scared of getting caught in a lie and getting punished.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. “Have you let Aubrey discipline the boys?”
“What? No! They’re my kids.” She crossed her arms. “I handle discipline.”
“But he gets the last word? Maybe with a paddle?”
Marybeth’s mouth fell open, and her face darkened. She looked like Artie; Beck would have found it comical in other circumstances. In a chilly voice, she said, “Your vast child-rearing experience tells you I’m not doing a good job?”
Shit. “I didn’t say that—”
“Sounded like it to me.” She turned toward the door and yelled through the screen, “Artie! Let’s go.”
Artie stared outside, a worried frown on his face. He said something to Zach.
“I’ll raise my kids how I see fit.” Marybeth scowled at the street.
“I’m not trying to tell you how to raise them, Marybeth. I’m worried about Artie. And Pete. Something isn’t right.” In fact, a lot of somethings.
“I’ll worry about the boys. You worry about yourself.”
Beck opened his mouth, closed it. From inside came the mumble of Artie’s voice, and Zach’s deeper one. Okay, Stryker, what are the hard facts? Exhibit number one. “Did he return the football to Artie?”
Marybeth pressed her lips together and said nothing.
“No? What did he do with it?”
She shook her head.
A shiver ran down Beck’s spine. “Did he get rid of it?”
Silence.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Aubrey disposed of a ball that meant everything to Dan’s son, and you’re okay with it?”
“I’m not okay with it,” she snarled. “Don’t think I am, because I’m not. But I’m trying to negotiate the waters of making a home with two kids and a man who isn’t their father. You don’t know what that’s like, Beck. It’s not easy.”
“Marybeth—”
“Relationships don’t work when one person says ‘my way or the highway.’ It requires constant compromise. If you and Zach hadn’t met each other halfway about location and work, you two wouldn’t be together.”
An uncomfortable awareness filled Beck’s chest. He’d not done an equal job of conceding; Zach had made the lion’s share of sacrifices. They were together because Zach had given up career and home to be with Beck, and after that, Beck still bitched all the time about the FBI intruding into their lives. “Maybe Aubrey requires too big a compromise.”
“It’s harder when you’re a single parent. You’ve never been married or widowed or had to raise kids alone. You have someone to come home to, someone who…loves you.” Her voice broke.
Awkwardly Beck said, “The kids love you.”
“Not the same,” Marybeth said hoarsely. “I need…someone for me.”
Beck’s heart twisted. “I know.” But not at the expense of her sons.
“Do you?”
“Yeah.” Beck cleared the emotion clogging his throat. “I do. But you deserve someone who can appreciate both boys for the unique in
dividuals they are, not some guy who puts all sorts of conditions on the relationship.”
Marybeth gave a watery sigh. “This last year without Dan… I never dreamed how hard it would be.”
Beck hadn’t anticipated that either. Recovering from a shattered shoulder and PTSD was nothing compared to what the Hallidays had been through. “I’m here, Marybeth. And so is Zach. We’ll help in any way we can. But for Artie’s sake, please reconsider this thing with Aubrey. Something’s off with this guy—you’ve seen the signs yourself. Artie is a good kid, and I think he has some legitimate concerns.”
Marybeth turned toward the street and dashed her forearm against her face.
“Mom?” Artie stood in the living room, looking through the screen.
“Hey, baby. Let’s go home.” Marybeth took one more swipe at her eyes.
“Do…do I have to?”
“Yes.”
Artie pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. He looked from his mom to Beck and back. “Are you mad?”
Marybeth gave a shaky laugh and pulled Artie in for a hug. “No, I’m not mad.”
“Sad?”
“It’s complicated.”
Artie huffed a big sigh and turned to Beck. “I told you.”
* * * *
Zach slipped between the cool, clean sheets, snapped off the lamp, and tucked his hands behind his head. The breeze carried in the first warm-up chirps of crickets, punctuated by the staccato of a barking dog. If he got any more tired, he’d be comatose. The long days were kicking his butt, and they had miles to go before the Follower was in custody.
Miles and miles.
The task force wouldn’t hold together much longer without some progress. Omaha was connected by the finest of threads—almost gone. He was so tired of being the one everyone looked to for direction, the one everyone looked to blame for lack of progress.
“Thanks for helping with Artie,” Beck called from the bathroom.
“Of course.” Artie needed help and protection. Zach had given the kid a key to the house—for emergencies—and reinforced it was never okay for an adult to hurt him in any way. Hopefully it was enough until Beck investigated Aubrey’s background.
