Sweet Sanctuary

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Micah agreed, but bemoaning things wouldn’t help Nicky. “But you’ve got those papers now. And your father has a lawyer. Take the papers to a judge and fight to get back your son. Don’t just roll over and play dead for Pankin.”

  Defensiveness flashed in Lydia’s swollen eyes. “I’ve used up nearly all of my gas ration coupons, as well as many of Father’s, driving the city in search of Nic and Nicky. But it seems hopeless. How can I fight for him when I don’t know where he is?” Lydia’s shoulders slumped. She hung her head. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Micah stared at her defeated pose. What had happened to the stubborn, determined woman he’d known before? Sorrow had taken the fight out of her. He squeezed her hand. “Where are your parents?”

  “Father is at work, and Mother went to the market.”

  “What has your father done to try to find Nicky?”

  “Nothing.” Lydia’s lips formed a grim line. “Father has done nothing. He acts as if there never was a child named Nicky who called him Poppy. When Mother or I cry, he leaves the room. He has no tolerance for our broken hearts.”

  Micah held his frustration inside, not wishing to add to Lydia’s distress. But his thoughts railed against N. Allan Eldredge. What an obstinate man Lydia’s father was. Micah drew in a deep breath and pushed off from the sofa. “Then I suggest we do what should have been done the day Pankin walked out the door. We’ll take Mrs. Fenwick’s letter and journal to the police. Not just some street cop, the chief of police. You’ll tell him everything you can remember about the day Pankin came—what he was wearing, the kind of automobile he drove, anything he said that might help us find him. Then we’ll take those documents from Mrs. Fenwick to your lawyer so he can arrange a meeting with a judge. We’ll be ready to win custody the moment we’ve located Nicky.”

  Lydia still looked helpless. “Do you really think anyone will listen to me?”

  Micah propped his hands on his hips. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a quitter, Lydia. I can’t believe you’d even consider giving up on your son without a fight.” His words were harsh—intentionally so. But somehow he had to stir her to life, to action.

  Lydia’s head dropped. Her entire frame quivered, but she balled her hands into fists. Micah waited, watching her chest pump like a bellows as she sucked in great gulps of air and released them. Suddenly she jolted upright, her eyes glittering with indignation. “I’m not a quitter. And I won’t give up on Nicky.”

  So she did have some life in her. Micah smiled. “Good.” He took her hands. “We’ll go, but first, let’s pray.” He bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, our hearts hurt because someone we love is not with us. But You know his whereabouts—Nicky is under Your watchful eye. Keep him safe. Hold Him tight in Your loving arms. And please lead us to him. In Your name we pray, amen.”

  “Amen,” Lydia echoed. She looked up at Micah, her face still wan but her shoulders square. “Mrs. Fenwick’s letter and journal are in my room. I’ll get them, and then we can go.”

  Micah rubbed his cheek. “Lydia? Before we leave, you might want to run a brush through your hair and change your clothes.”

  Lydia lifted a hand to her bedraggled locks and glanced down her own length. She grimaced. “My, yes. If I go out in these rumpled clothes, the police will wonder if I’m the morphine addict.” She dashed toward the stairs, but as she placed her foot on the lowest riser she paused and peered back at Micah. “Thank you for coming. I . . . I didn’t realize how much I needed you.”

  Micah’s heart turned over. He started to apologize for not coming sooner, but she clattered upstairs before Micah could form the response.

  23

  His name is Nicolai Pankin. His hair is dark blond—he wears it long, down to his collar—and his eyes are green. He is over six feet tall, with muscular shoulders but otherwise is fairly thin. He only has one arm—his left arm is severed just below the shoulder.”

  Micah stood in silence while the police chief on the other side of the cluttered desk recorded Lydia’s description. Straightforward, professional, and articulate, she showed amazing strength, and Micah’s admiration for her grew.

  Lydia continued, “He drove away in a Ford pickup truck—an older model, rather battered—dark green in color. And he’ll have a small boy with him.” She swallowed, her throat visibly bobbing and her composure momentarily faltering. “At least, I hope he will.” She sent a pleading look in Micah’s direction.

  He rested his elbow on the corner of the desk and gave the policeman Nicky’s description. He watched his statements appear in pencil lead on a sheet of yellow paper: Dark curly hair, brown eyes, age four years, approximately 38 inches tall and 34 pounds. In his memory, Nicky’s sweet voice echoed—“I’m small for my age”—and Micah sniffed back tears. How could a few brief lines of scribbled text possibly encapsulate the wonder of this child? He gulped and added, “He’s a wonderful boy. Very bright and imaginative. And when he laughs . . .” A smile grew on Micah’s face without effort. “Your heart ignites.”

  Lydia squeezed his hand, the shimmer in her eyes offering a silent thank-you.

  Unruffled by her show of emotion, the officer asked Lydia, “And this Pankin—you say he’s an addict?”

  “That’s right. Morphine. Which is why his wife didn’t want him to have their baby. She was afraid he would harm the child.”

  “But he has the child now?”

  “Yes, sir. He took Nicky from my care a week ago. I haven’t seen either of them since.”

  The officer jotted another few lines, then raised his gaze to Lydia once again. “Do you have any idea where Pankin lives or works?”

  Lydia pursed her lips. “He doesn’t have a job, to my knowledge. As for where he lives—no idea at all. I just know he’s in Boston somewhere.”

  “And you’re sure he’s still addicted to morphine?”

  Lydia whisked a troubled glance at Micah before answering. “The day he took Nicky, he asked my father for a job. My father reminded him why he’d been fired from the plant four years ago—because of his habit—and asked if the situation had changed. Nic said no, and it never would.”

  Her grim statement chilled Micah. This man had Nicky.

  “Well, thank you for coming in. I understand your concern. I’ll alert the men to be watching for a man meeting this description.” The officer leaned forward, his brow crunching into a scowl. “You understand . . . we can’t arrest him unless he’s caught performing an illegal activity. All we can do is keep an eye out.”

  Lydia raised her chin. “A four-year-old boy’s life could very well be in danger right now because of this man’s habit. I trust you will alert the men to that fact, as well.”

  The police chief nodded. “I will. Good luck in your custody battle, miss. Appears to me there’s just cause for removing the boy from his father’s care.” He pushed out of his chair and strode away with the notes in hand, presumably to share them with the other officers.

  Micah turned away from the desk. Lydia stood from her creaky wooden chair and looked up at him. “Now the lawyer?”

  Micah waved his hand toward the double doors leading to the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”

  As they left the police department, Lydia commented, “The law office my father uses is only a few blocks from here. We could save gasoline if we walked.”

  Considering the limited number of gas rations Micah had tossed into his suitcase as a last-minute thought while packing, her suggestion made sense. And a brisk walk might dispel some of their nervous energy. Micah shifted the envelope containing Mrs. Fenwick’s letter and journal to his right hand and offered her his left. “That sounds fine.”

  Lydia slipped her hand through the bend of his elbow. They turned east and set off with a determined pace. Now that a plan was in place, Lydia seemed eager to see it through. For the first two blocks they walked in silence, eyes straight ahead. But as they waited to cross to the third block, Lydia swung her gaze to his. “Micah, how were you able to cl
ose the clinic?”

  Micah looked right and left and then guided her across the street. “I asked a doctor friend to assign an intern for a few days.” He grimaced. “Took longer than I’d hoped to find someone willing to fill in, which delayed my coming here, but I’d never leave it closed. Too many people rely on it.”

  Lydia hop-stepped onto the curb, sending a soft smile in his direction. “You love that clinic.”

  She’d made a statement rather than asked a question, but Micah affirmed it anyway. “I do. But more than that, it’s where I’m meant to be. God put me there. I’ll stay until He plants me somewhere else.”

  Lydia puckered her lips, her brow pinched in thought, as they wove between other pedestrians on the sidewalk. Finally she sighed. “I wish I knew where God wanted me planted. I feel . . . rootless. Especially now with Nicky gone. I feel as though my purpose for living has been ripped out and tossed aside.”

  Micah drew her to a stop. “Lydia, I know you’re hurting. I know you miss Nicky. But I want you to remember something. Jeremiah—the book in the Bible, not my brother—says that God’s thoughts are in place for every life, and His thoughts are for peace, not evil. That applies to Nicky, too. Somehow God will use this situation for good one day. We just have to trust.”

  “I want to trust. I’ve felt so much closer to God since I was in New York and I heard His voice. I know He’s there. I just miss my son.” Tears quivered on her lashes, but she roughly brushed them away with her fingertips and began moving forward again, her steps purposeful. “Eleanor wanted Nicky with me. I believe that’s best for Nicky, too. We’ll find him. We have to find him.” She stopped in front of an ostentatiously carved building.

  Micah looked up and spoke the name carved into the limestone cap on the building. “Claiborne and Mitchell.”

  Lydia nodded briskly. “This is the place. Let’s go.” Steely resolve colored her tone.

  Micah opened the door and Lydia marched directly to the long, carved desk in the center of a massive reception area. He followed, resisting the urge to release an awe-filled whistle. Obviously these two lawyers did very well. A hallway divided the back half of the building, and ornately carved, paneled doors sprung off in both directions. Micah envisioned the rooms behind those doors—probably all wood-paneled and bedecked with thick Persian rugs, original oil paintings, and brass light fixtures just like the lobby. Suddenly he felt self-conscious in his tan dungarees, button-up shirt with the collar open, and scuffed Oxfords.

  Lydia, however, was not cowed in the least. She moved directly to the receptionist, who sat like a king on his throne behind the glossy desk. “I need to speak to Mr. Claiborne immediately. It is a matter of great importance.”

  The thick glasses enlarged the receptionist’s eyes, giving him the appearance of an owl. “Do you have an appointment, miss?”

  “No, I do not. However, I’m certain Mr. Claiborne will be willing to see me.”

  “Mr. Claiborne rarely sees anyone without an appointment.” The man set his lips in a firm line.

  Lydia squared her shoulders. “I don’t recall it being necessary for my father to make an appointment in the past.”

  “And your father would be—?”

  “Nicholas Allan Eldredge.”

  The receptionist’s ears turned red. “Please stay here, Miss Eldredge. I’ll see if Mr. Claiborne is available.” He disappeared down the hallway.

  Lydia turned to face Micah, a wry grin on her face. “He’ll be available. Father’s money opens doors.”

  “Do you want me to come back with you?”

  “It isn’t necessary, Micah, but thank you.” She took the envelope from him and lightly slapped her thigh with it.

  The receptionist returned quickly, a tense smile on his narrow face. “Right this way, Miss Eldredge. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Lydia clicked across the marble floor behind the receptionist, and a booming voice carried from the first room on the left. “Why, little Lydia, how good to see you!” The receptionist closed the door, sealing off the lawyer’s voice.

  Micah crossed to a grouping of leather chairs and seated himself, the leather squeaking as his weight pressed against it. He picked up the most recent Life magazine and thumbed through it while he waited for Lydia, silently praying that things would go well. Barely fifteen minutes passed before Lydia emerged. Her cheeks sported bright splashes of pink, and her eyes shone with determination.

  Micah rose and met her halfway across the floor. “What did you find out?”

  Lydia pointed toward the doors, and they headed outside. “Just as Father was told earlier, it will be hard to declare Nic as unfit, but it can be done with some effort. We’re going to need to find people willing to testify that they have seen Nic use morphine—and it needs to be recent use. We also need a record of his employment and why he left each job. Father fired him when he came to work under the influence, so it’s possible other employers have released him for the same reason. That will need to be verified. His home will require a thorough examination to determine if it is safe for a child, and it will also help to have a record of his places of residence—see if there’s a pattern of moving because of his addiction. Mrs. Fenwick’s accurate accounting of Eleanor’s last wishes is a benefit but by itself isn’t enough for me to win custody. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

  He liked the way she said “we,” including him in the effort. He also liked her enthusiastic attitude. She glanced up and must have caught his smile because she paused. “What’s amusing?”

  “I’m not amused, Lydia. I’m pleased by the change. You scared me when you opened the door and fell apart. You didn’t seem to have any life left in you. Yet here you are, armed for battle and charging out, determined to win.”

  Lydia smiled sheepishly. “I was feeling sorry for myself—and overwhelmed. Honestly, Micah, all Mother has done is cry since Nicky left, and Father . . .” She shook her head, sighing. “Well, Father shows no emotion at all. I’ve been caught between them. But not anymore! My little boy is out there somewhere, and with God’s help, I’m going to find him and bring him home.”

  “Good girl.” Micah’s chest swelled with pride, and he impulsively wrapped her in a quick hug. “That’s the Lydia I know and love.”

  The moment the last word escaped, both of them froze. The air seemed to sizzle between them. The bustling city—the blaring automobile horns, the odor of exhaust, the towering buildings—slipped away, and Micah and Lydia were all that existed in a patch of sunlight, breath held tight, eyes wide and seeking, blood pumping, incredibly aware of what Micah had just admitted.

  A car horn honked as tires squealed, and Micah jolted. His breath whooshed from his lungs. Lydia shifted her gaze away, her shoulders wilting. Micah’s heart rate slowed, his breathing regulated, the city rushed back, and reality surrounded them once more. He opened his mouth to tell her—what? That he didn’t mean what he’d said? He couldn’t honestly deny it. He did love her. But to have allowed it to slip out in that way, at this time, was all wrong. How could he take it back without hurting her?

  Before he could form any kind of speech at all, her dark eyes suddenly widened and she pointed frantically to something behind him, spluttering, “Look! Look!”

  Micah spun and looked, but he saw nothing more than a ramshackle pickup truck turning off Market Street. Then his heart lurched. He reached for Lydia, who caught his arm and tugged at it.

  “That’s Nic’s truck! I’ll get my car and we’ll follow him! Watch the truck!”

  And off she ran, leaving Micah straining to keep the pickup in his sights.

  24

  Lydia squealed the car to a stop next to the curb where Micah stood waiting. As he climbed into the car, she asked, “Which way did he go?”

  Micah pointed. “The pickup turned south—I think about three blocks off of Market. Let’s try to catch him. I think your Hudson will be more reliable than that thing he’s driving.”

  Lydia l
unged into traffic. Two cars swerved and honked at her, but Lydia merely gritted her teeth. She drove as recklessly as she dared, following Nic’s trail. Finally, they caught a glimpse of Nic’s pickup a few cars ahead.

  “Yes! There it is! We’ve got him in sight now.” Micah touched Lydia’s shoulder. “Settle down and drive safely.”

  She risked a quick grin in his direction. “Am I scaring you?”

  “No, but your driving is.”

  Lydia laughed, amazed at how good it felt. Her heart still raced—she might soon be reunited with Nicky!—but she slowed enough to avoid riding the bumper of the car ahead of her.

  She sat as high in the seat as possible, trying to peer around traffic to get a clear view of Nic’s back window. “Does Nic have Nicky with him? Can you tell?”

  Micah grabbed the dashboard, squinting ahead. “I think he’s by himself.”

  “That means he’s left Nicky somewhere.” Now her heart pounded in fear. “Oh, Micah, you don’t think he’s sold Nicky, do you?”

  Micah snorted. “If he’d recently come into money, I don’t think he’d be driving that old heap.”

  Lydia prayed he was right. They followed Nic’s pickup as it left the downtown area, passed through several middle-class neighborhoods, and finally wove its way into an area Lydia had never visited before. She grasped the steering wheel tightly as her nervous gaze scanned the area. “This looks like a rough place to live.” Her voice trembled with nervousness. “And he left Nicky here somewhere, alone.”

  “Not alone,” Micah said, his tone firm. “Nicky is never alone.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Nicky the day Nic took him away. And I know Jesus is with him, but—” She yelped as a taxicab careened from a side street, narrowly missing her. She slammed her brakes and downshifted. The Hudson jumped a curb before shuddering and then heaving into silence. Two blocks ahead, Nic’s truck rumbled around a corner and disappeared.

  “No! No!” Lydia pounded on the steering wheel, then viciously twisted the key, willing the car to life. A whine vibrated from beneath the hood, but the engine refused to engage.