by Lisa Jackson
“Hell,” he ground out as he drove a little farther, to the next long drive. This house, a sorry hovel, was more visible from the county road that ran straight as an arrow from the blue hills in the distance to the town of Hopewell about five miles in the other direction. Weeds and tall, dry grass already gone to seed choked the lane and scraped the underbelly of his truck as he pulled in. He braked at the open gate. A freshly painted FOR SALE sign had been nailed to the weathered fence, and Daegan decided that he’d just been granted his first break in the ten days since he’d reluctantly started this, his personal quest.
Maybe his luck was changing.
Oh, yeah, and maybe you’ll win the lottery, too, you son of a bitch.
His body ached from hours in the truck and he’d have liked nothing better than a beer to cool his parched throat, but first things first. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a leather pouch. Fingering past a thick stack of bills, he found what he was looking for—several snapshots, old black-and-white stills taken by a private investigator’s camera, pictures of a girl who was nearly twenty at the time. Her long hair was caught back in a ponytail, her face clean and fresh scrubbed as she dashed across the corner of School and Washington Streets toward the Old Corner Bookstore Building in Boston. A backpack was slung over one arm and she looked over her shoulder, directly into the camera’s hidden eye. Pretty, young, brimming with vitality. Even features, large eyes, and arched eyebrows. Full lips and a wary expression.
He wondered how much she’d changed since then, but then he wondered about a lot of things when it came to Kate Summers, a woman he’d never met.
Yet.
That would have to change.
Stuffing the photos back into the pouch, he located an old receipt for a six-pack he’d picked up at a convenience store in Boise, and with a pencil the previous owner of the truck had tucked into the visor, Daegan scribbled down the number of the real estate agent who’d agreed to list these dry, barren acres. He didn’t much care about the land; the ranch would just provide him with the cover he needed until he’d figured out his next move, but the location was perfect.
Location, location, location. Wasn’t that the phrase real estate agents always promoted when they were trying to sell you a place? Well, in this case, being right next door to Kate Summers’s house, they were right. The location was perfect.
“I’m telling you, Kate, a boy that age needs a father.”
A father. Kate’s blood ran cold at the mention of the man who had sired Jon—the criminal who didn’t know he’d created a son.
“…any boy that age needs a man around. I’m not just talking about Jon, but because he’s well…different, you know, and hard to handle, he needs the influence of a strong man even more. Now, I know it’s really none of my business, but what’re friends for?” Cornelia Olsen asked, her voice blaring from the telephone receiver.
Yes, what? Kate walked around the counter, stretching the phone cord as she opened a kitchen cabinet and found a bottle of aspirin. Even after fifteen years, the mention of the circumstances surrounding Jon’s birth made her break out in a cold sweat. As Cornelia continued to ramble on about Kate’s teenage hell-on-wheels son, about the McIntyre place next door being unoccupied now that old Eli had died and what did that mean—that more riff-raff would be moving into Hopewell, that’s what it meant—about how the weather had turned from a furnace blast two weeks ago to the cool of autumn now that it was nearly November, Kate tossed back the pills and chased them with a gulp of cold coffee. She didn’t care about the weather or the McIntyre place. But Jon worried her. He worried her a lot.
Lately he’d seemed edgy and restless, more abrupt than usual. Kate had told herself that it was just adolescence, that he was going through natural changes, physical as well as emotional. But there was more—an undercurrent of tension that was nearly palpable. He was worried, but whenever she asked him about school, or homework, or girls, or whatever she could think of, he clammed up—his latest defense mechanism. Where he used to say too much, letting people know that he could see things others couldn’t, lately he’d become withdrawn and brooding. She imagined that he was always looking over his shoulder and wondered what kind of trouble he’d discovered.
Drugs? Sex? Alcohol? Gangs? Weapons? Or was she overreacting? Was it that big of a deal that his grades had slipped and he’d become more sullen?
She stared out the open window to the late October afternoon. Leaves, lifted by an autumn breeze, skittered across the back porch, where Jon’s puppy, a black-and-white mutt of indecipherable lineage, lay on an old rag rug. The stalks of corn, now sunbleached and dry, were beginning to tumble down in the garden, where a few red tomatoes were visible through a tangle of pumpkin vines. Half a dozen apples that she’d failed to pick had fallen to the ground to wither and rot in the yellow, bent grass. Fall was definitely in the air, and though she was loath to admit it, Jon had become more of a problem than ever—she cut that line of thinking short. Jon was her son—not a problem—and she’d do anything, anything to keep him happy and safe. It was her vow when she’d first seen him, tiny and red-faced. So far she’d kept her promise.
“Never tell anyone that he’s not your boy,” Tyrell had insisted as she’d held the swaddled infant close to her breast so that he could hear her heartbeat. She’d felt the baby’s breath, warm and fragile through her clothes, and a joy had swept through her, a happiness that was kept at bay by the fear that what she was doing was wrong.
“I won’t.”
Tyrell’s tongue had nervously rimmed his lips. Whether it had to do with the adoption or the fact that the IRS was on his tail, Kate didn’t know. “The paperwork’s in here—it all looks legal.” He’d slipped a long envelope into the side pocket of the diaper bag she’d purchased. “When’re you moving?” he’d asked, his gaze sweeping over the packing crates and boxes in her small apartment.
“This weekend.”
“Still going to the West Coast?”
“Seattle first, then maybe Oregon.”
He held his hands up, palms outward. “The less I know, the better.”
“What if the family comes looking for him?” she asked in a sudden rush of panic. Now that she was cradling the baby in her arms, she couldn’t imagine ever letting him go.
“They won’t.” Tyrell barked out a laugh tinged in irony. “Believe me, they’ve worked too hard to keep this all a secret.”
“And the father—?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s still locked up and doesn’t even know he has a son.”
“But he could find out.”
Tyrell’s dark gaze drilled into hers. “Don’t let it happen, Kate. For the baby’s sake. Leave and never come back.”
“My sister lives here,” she pointed out, thinking of Laura, how close they’d been, how Laura had helped her through that painful nightmare of guilt and grief after Erin and Jim had been killed.
“Send her a plane ticket. Have her visit you, but for God’s sake, Kate, don’t ever come back to Boston.”
She’d taken Tyrell’s suggestion to heart. And she’d never heard from him again.
However, now, years later, one phone call from a neighborhood busybody with a heart of gold and suddenly all the worries she’d lived with, the doubts and fears, came rushing back to slap her with the force of a hurricane. Her mouth was dry and she could barely concentrate on the conversation. Get a grip, Kate!
“…so I just thought you’d want to know,” Cornelia was saying so loudly that Kate had to hold the receiver away from her ear. The poor woman, a gossip by nature, was deaf as a stone and didn’t realize it. “I’m telling you I wanted to know everything my boys were up to when they were teenagers. Whenever one of ’em wasn’t where he was supposed to be, my radar went up, let me tell you. I figured I needed to be the first to find out what was going on. Thought you’d feel the same.”
“You’re sure it was Jon you saw?” Kate asked, hoping against hope that the town busy
body was mistaken. Her fingers clutched the receiver in a death grip, which was silly. Cornelia had innocently mentioned that Jon needed a father figure and here she stood, heart racing, thinking of the faceless, vicious man in Boston whom she’d feared for fifteen years.
“Absolutely, it was Jon. He was down by Parson’s Drugstore just twenty minutes ago—”
Houndog cocked his head, gave an excited yip, and leaped off the porch sending the rug flying. Legs scrambling, he dashed around the house. Doom settled in Kate’s heart—it looked like Cornelia was right. Again. Oh, Jon, why?
“Good luck. It’s not easy raising teenage boys, especially without a man to help out. They’re trouble. Every last one of ’em.”
Slam! The screen door banged shut.
“I’ll talk to you later.” Kate hung up without waiting for a reply. “Jon?” she called.
“Son of a bitch! Son of a friggin’ bitch!” Jon’s voice, changing pitch and squeaking, echoed through the few rooms on the first floor.
“What’re you doing home so early—?”
Footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Kate steeled herself. Bam! Jon’s bedroom door slammed so hard the entire house shook. The dining room window rattled. Great, she thought checking her watch. One in the afternoon. Score one for Cornelia Olsen and her busybody’s nose for other people’s trouble. School wasn’t officially out for another two hours. But her son was home and in a lousy mood. Just great. Her headache increased, pounding behind her eyes.
“Give me strength,” she muttered as she headed for the stairs, stopping only when she heard Houndog whining pitifully on the front porch. She stared at the forlorn pup through the mesh of the screen door. “I don’t think you want to see him just now,” she said to the dog. “I know I don’t.”
Houndog looked up at her balefully, wiggled, and barked sharply.
“Okay, so you’re a glutton for punishment. We both are.” She opened the door a crack and Houndog wriggled through.
Sounds of cursing, kicking, and banging erupted from her son’s room as she climbed the stairs. The black and white pup streaked in front of her.
She knocked, then pushed the door open.
“Go ’way.” Jon lay on his unmade bed, glaring at the ceiling while throwing a baseball up in the air only to catch it again. Books, clothes, CDs, baseball cards, and magazines littered the floor. Shirts and jeans hung out of half-opened drawers and there wasn’t an inch of space on the top of his dresser, desk, or bookshelf that wasn’t covered with his treasures—everything from model airplanes to books on magic tricks. Houndog bounded onto the bed and sat, tail wagging frantically while Jon ignored him and continued to toss the ball.
“We need to talk.”
“Leave me alone.”
She sighed, then slid into the room and closed the door. Waiting. He didn’t move.
“You’re home early.”
No answer.
“What happened?”
He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, but didn’t even glance in her direction. “I ditched.”
Hang in there—don’t blow this, she warned herself. At least he’s talking, that’s an improvement. Folding her arms over her chest, she rested a shoulder against the doorjamb. “You ditched? Left school?” This was a first. And not good. Not good at all. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was hoping that school had let out early and she’d forgotten, but of course, Cornelia wouldn’t have made it a point to call if that had been the case.
“I’m suspended anyway.”
Brushing off a size ten basketball shoe, she sat on the chair next to his desk. She was beginning to sweat, but worked hard to remain outwardly calm. “Suspended? This sounds serious, Jon.”
“Yeah, suspended,” he snarled, mocking her. “And no, it’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Anger surged through her, but she held on to her temper. For now. It was best to get to the bottom of the problem before exploding. “Why?”
“’Cause that jerk Todd Neider tried to beat me up again. Called me a fag and a weirdo and a freak.” Jon swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. “Said…said I should be in a mental hospital with the other freaks.” Rather than break down and cry, his jaw hardened and she was amazed at the change in him. Until this year he’d never been suspended, never gotten into any serious trouble, even when the kids teased and bullied him, as they always had. He’d cried a lot and been called a sissy and a mama’s boy along with the other assortment of cruel names while he was enrolled in elementary school. Whenever there had been trouble, Jon had always run to her, anxious for her protection and love.
Lately, though, since becoming a freshman in high school this fall, he’d begun pulling away, trying to defend himself and distance himself from a mother who didn’t understand him. Along with the six inches he’d grown this past year, he’d acquired some pride and a thicker skin.
“Why did Todd try to beat you up?”
“Dunno.”
“Jon—?”
“I said, ‘I don’t know.’” Defiance crept into his voice, and his jaw, just beginning to show signs of whiskers, jutted forward mutinously. She waited and he caught the ball one last time before letting it roll to the floor. “Well, maybe it’s because I said he was a stupid dumb-ass jerk, that he’d end up like his old man—a drunken mill worker who would never get out of this pissant town.”
“That might do it,” she said, wishing she knew how to handle this situation. When he’d been younger, everything had been easy. Black or white. Good or bad. Wrong or right. Now, the problems blended together and there were no easy answers.
Jon didn’t crack a smile. “It’s true. Todd Neider’s not going to amount to a hill of beans.”
“Oh, good,” she said, unable to hide her sarcasm. “You told him that? No wonder he was offended.”
“He was giving me shiii—a bad time about fixing one of the computers for Miss Knowlton. He called me a nerdy-brained freak or something. Anyway, I’d had it, told him off, and he caught me in the hall after class and tried to beat the crap out of me.”
“Tried?” Kate asked, wary of the satisfaction that stole into Jon’s voice.
“I decked him. Nailed him hard with my fist. In the nose.” Jon smiled grimly at the thought of it. Pleasure gleamed in his hazel eyes. “There was blood everywhere, even splattered on Ellie Cartwright’s cheerleading uniform and…and then he jumped me. Lots of kids had gathered around by that time and then…” His voice dropped a little. “Then Mrs. Billings caught us.”
“I thought the school called when there was trouble.”
“There was some kind of a screw-up, I think. The vice principal was in a meeting so Neider and I were stuck in this room by the office—like a holding tank, I guess—until McPherson got back. Anyway, I got tired of listening to Todd.” Jon’s expression grew dark again. “He was calling me all sorts of gross names like dickhead and shit-face and—”
“I get the picture.”
“Anyway, he said he was going to kill me the next time he got the chance. So I climbed out the window and ditched.”
“He has no right to threaten you in any way, shape, or form. And telling someone that they’re going to kill you—”
“Big deal.” He shrugged on the bed. “He says it all the time. It’s just an expression, and you know what?” Jon’s eyes squinted up at her.
“What?”
“He’d never do it. It’s all just talk because Neider’s afraid of me. He’s not going to kill me.” Jon seemed confident, as if one punch to Todd’s nose made up for all the years of being afraid.
“When did all this happen?”
“I don’t know.” Another lift of his shoulder. “It was just before lunch.”
The phone rang and Kate’s heart squeezed.
Jon scowled. “Somebody at school probably figured out I was gone.”
“Wonderful,” she muttered sarcastically, barely able to control her temper. She was angry with him—
furious—but it wouldn’t help to start yelling. And she was worried—worried sick. She had to remind herself that she was the adult in this discussion. “I’ll get the phone and you clean this room. Pronto. You’re in big trouble, Jon. Not just with the school, but with me. You can’t go around punching someone’s lights out even if they are giving you a bad time.”
“So what’m I s’posed to do? Call you? Dial 911? Or go cry to the principal?” he sneered under his breath as Kate hurried out of his room and down the stairs.
She grabbed the receiver on the fly, just before the answering machine picked up. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Summers? This is Don McPherson.”
Her stomach clenched, as it always did when there was trouble with Jon. She listened as the vice principal told her basically the same story that Jon had. “What makes it worse,” McPherson continued, his voice heavy, “is that Jon didn’t stay here. He snuck out. That’s another day’s suspension.” She heard him sigh and riffle through a series of papers—probably her son’s file, which was growing thicker by the minute. “You know, Jon’s had his problems, but he’s always been able to deal with them. Until now. Personally, I think it’s good in a way. He needs to stick up for himself. But he can’t break the rules.”
“I know. I’ll talk to him.”
“You can pick up his assignments; they’ll be in the office and we’ll start with a clean slate on Tuesday.”
She closed her eyes. “It’s…it’s difficult for him.”
“I know. But then it’s hard for all teenagers today. Lots of pressure. Too much. In Jon’s case it’s amplified.”
Leaning against the refrigerator, Kate rubbed a temple with her free hand. Jon was a good-hearted, smart kid who most of his classmates thought was some kind of oddity. The parents weren’t much better. Several had warned their children to stay away from “that peculiar Summers boy.” A few others had even said they thought he was a devil worshipper. All because Jon had the ability to see through a window into the future. Sometimes. The window wasn’t always clear. Thank God. In all these years he hadn’t divined that he was adopted, that somewhere far away he had another set of parents.
