First Comes Love

by Heather Heyford

  Fact #1. His life was here now, in Newberry, and so was Kerry’s.

  Fact #2. The boxing lessons were turning out to be his favorite part of his week. After all these years, maybe Chief had seen something in him that he never had. Maybe you could teach an old dog new tricks.

  And Shay was his star pupil, vulnerable, talented, and anxious to please. As for him, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her either.

  Fact #3. Kerry was right—they would never work. She was far and away the most intriguing woman he had ever known. They had both come to Newberry for the same reason: a fresh start. Yet despite the fact that it almost killed him to admit she was right and he was wrong, they were both too headstrong, too volatile. Like oil and water. Fire and ice.

  Something Chief was saying about having to pay a visit to a lone wolf who lived by the river caught Alex’s attention.

  “What about Curtis Wallace?”

  “You are listening. Glad to see you got your head out of the clouds, Walker. Aw, forget it. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll go myself. I’m the only one that’s got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting through to the old curmudgeon.”

  “What’s Curtis’s crime?”

  “Insists on burning his own trash, despite the no-burning ordinance. Lady who lives downwind who claims to have bad allergies calls to complain about the smoke every blessed week, without fail. I got no choice but to file a report, at least some of the time.”

  “Let me go,” said Alex.

  “A CAP guy? I couldn’t ask you to stoop so low,” he kidded, to the amusement of the other officers.

  “Yet you were willing? Seriously, Chief, I can stop out there right before dark, before I head home.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, Alex drove slowly along the river road, looking for Curtis Wallace’s hand-lettered sign that Chief Garrett and the other members of the force at this morning’s briefing had har-harred about.

  He slowed when he saw a sign up ahead, next to a clearing.

  PRIVATE SIGN—DO NOT READ.

  Smiling at the old goat’s sense of humor, he turned the Taurus right and braced himself for the ruts in the unpaved road.

  Another sign fifty yards farther on warned trespassers to KEEP OUT.

  Undeterred, Alex stuck a toothpick between his teeth and kept going until he saw the rust-colored logs of an A-frame cottage and a pickup truck parked alongside a shoulder-high stack of firewood. From the few slowly rotting stumps, he deduced the wood had come from trees felled to make the clearing for the house. In the Willamette’s maritime climate, it wasn’t that unusual for some rugged folks to rely solely on wood fires for heat.

  Alex got out and hopped up the porch steps to where a lonely Adirondack chair sat. He flattened his back along the exterior wall, turned his head, and peeked into the window.

  As it turned out, the neatly stacked wood was no indication of the house’s interior. On a couch positioned for the best viewing angle to the TV were a balled-up blanket and a bed pillow, still with the indentation of a head scooped into it.

  Alex turned away from the window and went to the front door. Considering yet another sign tacked onto it, this one reading, COME BACK WITH A WARRANT, the WELCOME doormat was an ironic touch.

  “Curtis! It’s Alex Walker. Answer the door.”

  When no one came, he followed the aroma of grilling meat to the back of the cabin, where a stretch of riverfront had been cleared to give a view of the water. There, beneath a beat-up camo ball cap with a pair of shades propped on its bill he found Curtis standing over a charcoal grill jerry-rigged out of a barrel, wielding a long fork.

  “Can’t you read? Get the hell off my property.” He raised his fork in a threatening manner.

  “It’s me,” said Alex without breaking stride. “Walker. From the Turning Point.”

  Curtis lowered his weapon halfway.

  “Killing two birds with one stone, I see,” said Alex with a nod to the fishing rod balanced across two sawhorses, its line pulled taut at an angle by the river’s current.

  Curtis tipped his head back and polished off the last of the clear liquid in his Mason jar, then disappeared into a ramshackle garage with a NOTICE: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY tacked at an angle above the door. A moment later, he reappeared holding his own refilled jar plus another. “This summer’s gonna be a hot one, I can feel it. You came all the way down here, might as well join me,” he told Alex.

  Even this late in the evening, the air outside Alex’s air-conditioned car was sweltering. Gnats buzzed around his head. He tossed away his toothpick, took the jar Curtis offered, and lowered his nose to the rim.

  “Woowhee!” It smelled like Granny Smith apples soaked in gasoline. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s moonshine. But then, that’d be illegal.”

  “Taste it. Tell me what you think.”

  Alex hesitated, then threw caution to the wind.

  At first, nothing. Then came the flame, like a blowtorch burning a hole in the back of his throat, making his knees threaten to buckle.

  “One ninety proof,” said Curtis proudly.

  Alex held the jar up to the light. “That stuff packs a potent punch.”

  Curtis grinned, the gap in his teeth showing. “Take another sip.”

  He knew he shouldn’t. But there was something contagious about Curtis’s devil-may-care attitude.

  “Holy shit.” He shook his head like a wet dog. “Feels like my face is melting off. But not in a bad way.”

  “Ha! If likker’s too much for you, there’s beer over there in the cooler.”

  “Maybe. Just to cleanse my palate.” Alex set the jar on the table and grabbed a cold can of Deschutes.

  “You draw the short straw? That what brought you here?” asked Curtis as he took a fearless swig of ’shine and then used his fork to flip the slab of meat on the grill.

  “Volunteered,” replied Alex, looking beyond the evidential burn barrel to a trash heap consisting of cans, bottles, and other noncombustibles that gradually disappeared into the thick brush surrounding the riverbank. “Don’t you have trash collection out here?”

  “What do I need to pay someone to haul my trash for? It’s my property, my trash. I can do what I want with it.”

  Now Curtis was tearing up slices of bread and tossing the pieces onto the ground in the direction of the riverbank.

  “Just sayin’. You might get more people stopping by if you tidied up around the place a little.”

  “What do I need company for? I like livin’ off the grid.”

  “Aw, come on, Curtis. Don’t tell me you don’t get lonely out here all by yourself.”

  You’re a good one to talk, thought Alex.

  “Bull. Why would I get lonely? I got everything I need, don’t I? Roof over my head, bed to sleep in—”

  By the looks of his couch, Alex bet there weren’t many nights Curtis made it to the bed.

  “—coho and steelheads straight from the river. I go to town to cash my check and buy more beer. That’s all I need. Steak’s about done. Got plenty of it. More than I can eat. Hand me one of those plates, wouldja?” He carried the meat to the picnic table, sawed it in two, and forked half onto a second plate lying there.

  “That’s all right,” replied Alex. The sizzling beef smelled amazing, but this wasn’t a social call.

  “Have a seat,” Curtis ordered. He climbed over the bench attached to the table and, without ceremony, began to eat.

  Alex stared uncertainly at the extra steak, still glistening from the grill. It’s outside was nice and charred, and the inside was the perfect shade of pink, just the way he liked it.

  He could eat here, sit at Ruddock’s by himself, or go home and cobble something together and hope it tasted halfway edible.

  He took a seat on the bench across from Curtis in the shade of a tall tree, reached for the extra knife and fork, and tucked in.

  For someone who didn’t like company, Curtis sure did like to talk.
Once he got started, Alex could barely get a word in edgewise. Curtis rambled on and on about everything under the sun, from his cranky neighbor with her so-called, made-up allergies who was always complaining about him to the species of fish in the river and the best baits to catch each, and then back to the weather.

  “How long’ve you lived out here?” Alex managed to slip in when he got an opening.

  “Nine years, ever since I lost my wife and son. Couldn’t go back to our house. Too many memories. I’d be thinking about them every time I looked around.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Driver ran a stop sign. They never knew what hit them.”

  “That how you got your leg hurt?”

  “Shattered my femur. Was in the hospital four months. Still full of pins. They said I’ll probably never get through a metal detector again.”

  “Five years is a long time. How old are you?”

  “Forty-two on the Ides of March. That’s the fifteenth, in case you didn’t know.”

  Only forty-two? Alex almost choked on his beer. “Plenty of time left to meet someone new.”

  Again—he was a good one to talk.

  Curtis set down his steak bone, wiped his hands on a blue bandanna, and pushed his plate to the side. “If I had to go through that again, I couldn’t take it.”

  “I don’t mean to downplay what happened. Not by any means. But isn’t that what life’s about? Taking risks?”

  “I was taking a risk when I got out of bed that morning, wasn’t I? And look what happened. No, thanks. I’m through with that. Nothing but heartache comes from getting close to people.”

  Alex heard quacking and watched as a raft of ducks climbed out of the water upriver from Curtis’s fishing line and began pecking at the bread he had thrown there.

  “Something tells me this isn’t the first time those ducks have found a meal up here.”

  “Yeah, I can count on them to come visit me just about every night.”

  “What about the rest of your family? Any brothers or sisters?”

  “A sister, but we had it out a few years back. She’s called a couple of times. Left messages. Haven’t gotten around to answering them yet.” He got up and headed toward the cooler.

  “No, thanks,” said Alex with a chopping motion across his throat when Curtis started back holding two more cans. He’d barely made a dent in the first one. “I’m technically at work.”

  “One more. Who’s gonna know? I’m sure as hell not gonna tell ’em.”

  Alex rose and picked up his plate, intending to carry it inside.

  “Don’t worry about that.” Curtis waved it away impatiently. “I’ll get it. Did I tell you the story about—”

  “I got to go,” said Alex, leaving his unfinished beer on the table. “Thanks for the hospitality. Call the trash company and get them to come out here and take care of your trash for you. Otherwise we have no choice but to keep bothering you.”

  “No bother,” Curtis said and kept on talking as he accompanied Alex to his car.

  As Alex drove away, he could see Curtis in his rearview mirror, still talking to himself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alex hadn’t even made it back to the main road when he heard Dispatch call to Patrol about an incident at the Thrifty Market. Two young boys had been caught shoplifting and were being held by the manager.

  It wasn’t Alex’s call. His shift officially ended in less than an hour, at ten p.m. But he had to drive through town anyway to get home, and he’d never met an officer who didn’t appreciate backup. He sped toward the market.

  When he got there, he found Myers’s patrol car sitting parallel to the store’s entrance.

  Alex flashed his badge to a store clerk and was pointed toward the manager’s office. He entered to find two skinny boys with shaved heads slumped in chairs. Myers, listening intently to the manager’s account of what had happened, acknowledged Alex’s presence with a nod.

  The boys sat up straighter when they saw Alex. When his eyes met their green ones, his suspicions were confirmed.

  “What’s going on?” he asked the boys in a low voice.

  Neither responded.

  A package of hotdogs, moisture condensing on the plastic, lay on the manager’s desk.

  “Okay,” said Myers, walking over to Alex and the boys. “You already apologized. The manager’s not going to press charges. Time to go home.”

  “A word?” Alex led Myers outside of the office.

  “These are the same boys I caught out after curfew and then trying to break into the school cafeteria. They were crawling with lice. That explains the shaved heads. The parents have been fined twice for neglect.”

  Myers shifted his feet. “The Pelletiers are good customers. The owner doesn’t want to make a stink. It’s his store. His call.”

  “Those boys are stealing food for one reason: they’re hungry. If not for food, then for”—he’d been about to say love, but that sounded so sappy—“attention.”

  “You’re new here. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

  “Let me take this one. I’ll owe you.”

  Myers looked over his shoulder at the storeowner.

  “Chief was there before when I brought them in,” said Alex. “He talked to the social worker. He knows what’s what.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Come on, boys,” said Alex.

  “Where are you taking them?” asked Myers.

  Alex pretended not to hear. Because he didn’t know yet where they were going to end up. All he knew for sure was that he needed to witness these kids eat a good, hot meal with his own eyes.

  He took them to a diner along the highway outside of town and asked for a booth toward the back.

  The aromas of frying bacon, toast, and fresh coffee hit them as they walked through the door.

  “What’s your favorite thing to eat?” he asked the boys sitting across from him as he cracked open the menu.

  It was the first time he’d ever seen them grin.

  “Pancaketh,” said Travis.

  “Hotdogs,” said Tyler, not surprisingly.

  Alex ordered a burger for himself. He added applesauce for the boys, because it sounded healthy, and milkshakes to put some fat on their bones.

  He had a ton of questions for them, but first things first. He ate his burger while watching them shovel food into their mouths as fast as they could.

  “Slow down,” he told Tyler. “You’re barely even chewing that hotdog.”

  Tyler frowned and tongued one of his back teeth. “Hurts when I chew.”

  Once the boys’ medical and dental problems were diagnosed, Alex had simply assumed they would be attended to. Apparently, he had assumed wrong. The lice, yes. School rules required that be treated. But the cavity was less obvious.

  He clenched his hands in his lap. “Any plans to get that fixed?”

  Tyler shook his head. Then, to cover for his parents, he added, “Sometime.”

  “Your folks know where you are?”

  Their smiles disappeared and they clammed up.

  “Be real with me, now. I want what’s best for you. Don’t you know that by now?”

  Travis stabbed another forkful of the pancakes Alex had cut into bite-sized pieces for him and left a trail of maple syrup across the Formica while Tyler used his finger to wipe up what was left of the catsup on his plate and lick it off.

  Dejection rose from the boys like the steam from the hot coffee the server had just poured into Alex’s china mug.

  “Let me put it this way. Is your dad home?” Beneath his calm demeanor, Alex could feel the vein throbbing in his neck. He’d about had it with the mom. What he wouldn’t give to have a good, old-fashioned mano a mano with the dad—better yet, go a couple of rounds in the ring with him.

  Travis shook his head.

  “Travis!” scolded Tyler. “You’re not supposed to tell.”

  “I don’t care.” Travis fr
owned. “They went on a trip,” he told Alex.

  “To where? Where’d they go?” The longer he kept firing questions at them, the greater the likelihood they’d drop the pretense.

  Travis eyed his brother warily.

  “They had to go away for a while,” Tyler said, sucking his milkshake through his straw.

  “Who’s watching you while they’re gone?”

  “Nobody,” said Travis.

  “We can take care of ourselves,” added Tyler with a hint of boastfulness in his tone that only wrenched at Alex’s heart more. Tyler couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. But the kid had his pride.

  “You must have a babysitter. A grandparent? Neighbor looking in on you?”

  Tyler shook his head.

  “When are they coming back?”

  Travis shrugged.

  “Don’t know,” said Tyler.

  “How long do they usually go away for?”

  “Last time, about ten days,” replied Tyler before he thought the better of it.

  Alex massaged his chin. If he hadn’t met Mrs. Pelletier himself, seen that stone-cold face, that blatant lack of remorse, he wouldn’t believe what he was hearing. But he had. And he did.

  He pulled out his cell phone and, in coded language, advised Dispatch that he was on his way in with two juveniles and to have CPS standing by.

  * * *

  It was midnight when a caseworker finally left the station with the Pelletier brothers in tow.

  “Did you tell her about Tyler’s tooth? He’s already gone too long without getting that cavity filled.”

  “I told her,” said Ms. Bartoli, watching Alex stare after the van’s receding taillights.

  “What kind of people would actually go out of state and leave kids that age alone, unsupervised?”

  “At least the dad gave the kids a cell phone.” When she reached Greg Pelletier on the number programmed into it, he claimed he and his wife were already on their way back to Newberry.

  But the boys were too young to be taken directly home without an adult present, and there were no nearby relatives.

  “What will happen next?”

  “Abuse and neglect cases tend to move very quickly. If the boys aren’t returned to the parents or some other arrangement isn’t made within seventy-two hours, the case will have to go before the court. My recommendation will carry some weight, but ultimately it’s going to be up to the judge.”