Micah hopped out. “Release the hood’s latch.”
Lydia gave the silver latch a firm yank, and Micah lifted the hood. He leaned in, then knelt on the glass-strewn pavement and peeked beneath the car. After a few seconds, he stood, brushed his hands together, and sent a dismayed look in her direction.
Gooseflesh broke out across Lydia arms. She slid out and joined Micah. “What is it?”
“When you went over the curb, something pierced the oil pan.” He pointed to a thin flow forming a shiny black puddle under the car. “You flattened a tire, and I think the wheel might be bent. This car won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”
Panic clawed at her heart. “What do we do?”
“We’ll have to see if someone who lives around here will let us use their telephone to call for help—either your father or a towing company.”
Lydia gaped at him. “But what about Nic? He’s getting away!”
Sympathy creased Micah’s brow. He cupped her shoulders. “Lydia, you can’t chase after him on foot. Look around.”
She did, taking in the dilapidated houses with broken windows and rotting porch floors. People peered from behind shredded curtains, their faces somehow menacing. She shivered despite the sun’s heat.
Micah nodded grimly. “We can’t leave the vehicle here unattended, and we shouldn’t go traipsing around. I don’t think it’s safe.”
A lump filled Lydia’s throat. She swallowed, but the knot remained there, a ball of frustration and worry. “But Nicky might be here somewhere, Micah. How can I think of my car before him?”
Micah massaged her shoulders briefly before lowering his hands. “As difficult as it is, you’ve got to see to your car first. Without it, we can’t seek Nicky.” Slipping his arm around her waist, he guided her to the gaping driver’s door. “Get in there, roll up the windows, and set the locks. I’m going to”—he flicked an uncertain glance at the closest house—“see if anyone has a telephone I can use. If not, I’ll walk until I find a telephone booth. But no matter how long I’m gone, stay inside the car. Don’t open your door for anyone but a policeman or me. Do you understand?”
Lydia recognized the deep concern in his voice. As much as she ached to run down the street in search of Nicky, she understood the importance of safety. “All right.” She climbed behind the wheel and pulled the door closed behind her. Reaching through the open window, she caught Micah’s sleeve. “Please hurry.”
He leaned down and offered a reassuring smile. “I will. And don’t worry. We asked God to lead us to Nicky, and He brought us this far. He won’t fail us now. Sit tight—I’ll be back as quickly as possible. While I’m gone, pray.”
He waited while she rolled up the windows and pushed the lock buttons. Then, with another smile and wink—the sweet gesture bringing the sting of tears to Lydia’s eyes—he strode up the block.
Nic parked behind a car with two missing wheels and the back window broken out. When would the landlord make the owners haul the thing away? Cats had taken up residence in it and they yowled all night, disrupting his sleep. Besides, with that hunk of junk filling space, he couldn’t even get close to his own apartment building. He’d lodge another complaint if it wouldn’t require a face-to-face with the building’s owner. Since he was behind on his rent, he needed to keep his distance.
He skirted patches of broken glass as he strode across the weed-infested yard where a squealing passel of dirty-faced kids kicked an empty coffee tin back and forth in place of a ball. A rolled-top paper bag clutched in his hand, he stepped off the yard onto the chipped concrete slab fronting his building. The door had long been stripped of its doorknob and it hung on loose hinges. He hooked the bottom edge with his boot toe, sending the warped door bouncing against the brick wall, and entered the hallway. No sunlight reached inside, and deep shadows shrouded the filthy space. Nic poked the button for the overhead light. The bulb on a length of twisted wires brightened, fizzled, then popped. Darkness fell around him. He snorted. Burned out. Again.
He stood for a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and then he aimed himself for the narrow stairway leading to the upper floors. Two kids plowed out of an apartment door on his left and dashed past him while their mother hollered after them to get themselves right back inside. The pair didn’t even pause—just laughed like a couple of hyenas and kept going. Nic shook his head in disgust and moved onward. Fool kids anyway.
He’d wanted a first-floor apartment when he’d moved in. Tough hauling belongings up flights of stairs with only one hand. And on his weak days—the ones when he couldn’t get ahold of any magic dust—he had trouble just getting himself up the stairs. But people with kids lived in most of the first-floor apartments. And he’d always wanted to avoid kids.
Until now.
He paused midway up the staircase, his knuckles resting on the banister and one foot on a higher riser than the other. His gaze lifted, and he envisioned his one-room apartment where Eleanor’s son—his son—probably cowered in a corner. The kid had spent every day so far hunkered in the corner, as far from Nic as he could get and still be in the same room. Nic berated himself. Why hadn’t he delivered the boy to the Bachmans yet? His August fourth deadline had long passed. And he needed money. Needed it bad. The hubcaps and leather coat he’d taken from a fancy car uptown hadn’t fetched nearly enough at the pawn shop. So he oughta take the boy to Weston and get his promised five thousand dollars.
But he remained rooted on the stairway like a garden statue, his face aimed toward the second floor and his stomach pinching. If only the kid didn’t look so much like Eleanor. If he had his father’s coloring instead, Nic would be able to dump him in a heartbeat. He’d never cared for his own appearance. Too much like his old man’s face looking back from the mirror. He’d had no trouble walking away from his parents, but walking away from Nicky . . . He couldn’t do it. Not when the kid looked at him with Eleanor’s eyes.
Need scratched his flesh, giving him the sense of bugs crawling beneath his skin. Nic sighed and forced himself to continue upward. He’d get to his apartment, take his medicine—or his candy, as he now called it for Nicky’s sake—and maybe, just maybe, if there were any luck in the world at all for Nicolai Pankin, the morphine would dull his pain and give him enough courage to make that trip to Weston after all.
Nic plodded up the remaining stairs, rounded the curve at the landing, and scuffed the short distance to his apartment. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, stumbling over the threshold. He waved the paper sack. “Hey, kid. Gotcha some bananas.” He scanned the room, looking in each corner first. No crouching boy with a teddy bear locked in his arms. Kid must’ve found a new hiding place.
He roamed the small space, peeking behind furniture and in cubbies. “Remember yesterday, you said you wanted one? Well, c’mon and get it.” Nic kicked at a heap of discarded clothing, but the boy hadn’t burrowed beneath it. He frowned, turning a slow circle while apprehension prickled his scalp. “Nicky?”
Nic plopped the sack on the little table in the kitchen area of the apartment and then darted out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom. The door was closed. The lock never held, so closed was supposed to mean occupied—knock first. Nic didn’t bother to knock. He threw the door open, bellowing, “Nicky, you in here?”
“Ain’t nobody here but me!” a crotchety voice rasped from behind a stall wall—old Mr. Tinker from Apartment 4B.
“You seen a little boy—dark hair, ’bout waist high?” Nic’s heart thumped as he waited for a reply.
“Seen a little dark-haired feller scuttlin’ down the stairs near an hour ago. Had a teddy bear under his arm.” The old man’s voice took on a sharp edge. “Now get outta here an’ let a man have some privacy, why don’tcha?!”
Nic backed out, leaving the door wide open. Tinker hollered in indignation, but Nic ignored him. That boy could be anywhere by now, and he’d better find him. Five thousand dollars—and his own peace of mind
—rested on it.
Nic searched until dusk, exploring the gaps between close-set houses, behind trash bins and abandoned appliances, and under parked cars. He stopped every person he encountered and asked if they’d seen a little kid carting a teddy bear. Most just shrugged, but twice someone pointed him in the direction Nicky had gone. But even with their hints, Nic came up empty. With night approaching and his ability to see hindered—as well as his need to consume his magic powder making every muscle in his body twitch—he reluctantly aimed himself for the apartment building once more.
He growled under his breath as he stomped back home. The itch beneath his skin tormented him, and he dug at his flesh with his chipped fingernails while he walked, his frustration growing with every step. Blamed kid. What’d gotten into him to take off like that? Didn’t he know danger lurked in this neighborhood? Nicky would be like a lamb in a wolves’ den with the rough kids who lived around here. And all beat up and bloodied, no way Mrs. Bachman would pay full price for him.
His steps faltered as he envisioned Nicky covered in bruises, maybe lying hurt and alone somewhere. Something akin to protectiveness welled within him, and the feeling had nothing to do with losing money. He paused and examined his own thoughts. Had he grown attached to the kid? He released a derisive snort and forced his feet into motion. His need for morphine was muddling his brain. As soon as he steadied his system with his magic dust, he’d borrow—or steal—a lantern and go searching again. He’d find that boy if he had to turn over every stone between here and the county line.
He entered his building and pawed his way to the second floor, the lack of light making him dizzy. When he rounded the bend on the foyer, his gaze fell on a small lump in the hallway right outside his door. He squinted, trying to make out the shape in the shadows. Realization dawned, and within his chest his heart seemed to turn a somersault.
“Nicky?”
The lump shifted, Nicky’s head lifting from his sunk-low pose. His white face nearly glowed in the gray hallway. “M-mister?”
Nic stumbled forward, anger mingling with relief in his mind. He grabbed Nicky’s arm and tugged him to his feet. “Where you been, boy?”
Tears winked in the child’s eyes. “I . . . I wanted to go home. I want Mama. But I couldn’t find my way.”
Blowing out a mighty breath, Nic gave Nicky’s skinny arm a shake and then released him. He fumbled for his key. “’Course you couldn’t. We ain’t anywhere near your old house. Plain stupid for you to even try to find it.”
Tears slipped down Nicky’s cheeks. He began to whimper.
Nic unlocked the door and pushed Nicky inside. The little boy scuttled to the closest corner and sank down, burying his face in his teddy bear’s stomach. Sobs wracked his little body. Nic stood just inside the door, staring at the child. An unfamiliar yearning—the desire to offer comfort—rolled through the back of his mind. But he didn’t have any idea what to say. What to do.
The prickle of need pulled his attention from the distraught little boy in the corner. He strode to the kitchen table and opened the sack. In the bottom, below the pair of overripe bananas, his packet of magic dust beckoned. He’d see to himself. Satisfy the demons that clawed at his flesh. And tomorrow he’d bundle the kid in his pickup and take him to the Bachmans. No more delays. He had no place in his life for a child. Especially not Eleanor’s child. Because Eleanor’s child deserved more than he could give.
25
Micah listened with interest as Lydia faced her father across the kitchen table where she, Micah, and Allan Eldredge sipped Postum while Lavinia washed dishes.
“Father, I’m not asking for your ration coupons. I’m asking for the use of your car until mine is available again.”
“But the mechanic indicated it might be several days before the Hudson is operational.” Allan flicked a frown in Lavinia’s direction. “Is there any of that pie left? I’d like a piece to go with my Postum.”
Without a word, Lavinia crossed to the refrigerator and removed a small plate holding the remaining slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie. Micah held back the question hovering on the end of his tongue. How could Allan Eldredge behave as if nothing were amiss? Lavinia had prepared a fine meal, but no one had an appetite except Allan. He’d consumed every bit of his pork roast, peas, carrots, and potatoes, seemingly oblivious to the cloud of worry hanging over the table. His unconcerned, uncooperative attitude puzzled Micah. Didn’t he care at all about the child he’d previously claimed as his grandson?
Lydia put her hand over her father’s wrist, preventing him from stabbing a fork into the pie. “Do you understand we spotted Nic today? We found the area of town in which he apparently lives. Nicky could very well be there with him, and—”
Allan jerked his hand free and rose at the same time, sending his chair clattering to the floor. Fury blazed in his eyes. “You honestly believe the man still has Nicky? He’s an addict, Lydia. He’d sell his own soul to feed his repugnant habit. The very day he carted Nicky out of this house, he disposed of him the same way any of us would dispose of an unwanted litter of kittens. The boy is gone, and I will not have you encouraging me to cling to a hope that doesn’t exist!”
Lydia pushed to her feet, reaching her hand toward her father. “Father, I—”
He slapped her hand aside. “No! I will not listen to another word. Nicky is dead to us, Lydia. It’s best for all of us to accept it, bury him in our minds, and move on.” He stomped out of the room and then his feet pounded on the stairs. Moments later a door slammed overhead.
Lydia turned slowly toward her mother, who looked at the ceiling with her lips pursed tight. “Should I . . . ?”
Lavinia shook her head. “Let him be. I’ll go up in a bit and talk to him.” Her sympathetic gaze rested on Lydia’s face. “He’s proud. Too proud to admit he was wrong the day Nic came and asked for a job. He blames himself.”
Lydia’s expression hardened. “He should.”
Lavinia sighed. “Yes. But we can’t change what’s past.” She angled her head to look at Micah. “Dr. Hatcher, you don’t have an emotional investment in this situation, which allows you to look at things more logically. May I ask you a question?”
Micah could have argued with her assumption he had no emotional investment. His heart ached for Nicky, for Lydia, and even for the stubborn man who sealed himself away from everyone upstairs out of his heavy burden of guilt. But instead, he said, “Of course.”
Unshed tears brightened the older woman’s eyes. “Do you really believe there’s a chance Nic hasn’t . . . disposed of Nicky in some reprehensible manner?”
Micah wouldn’t offer false hope, but he would answer honestly. “When Lydia and I spotted Pankin today, he was driving his dilapidated truck into a very unsavory neighborhood. My gut tells me if he’d sold Nicky, he’d be long gone. Or at least have used the money to purchase a decent automobile or a better apartment.” He swallowed, his heart pounding in trepidation. “We can’t know for sure without talking to him, but I do believe there’s still reason to hope.”
Lavinia offered a thoughtful nod, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her movements so slow Micah almost thought he imagined them, she turned to face her daughter. “Lydia, you know I never go against your father’s wishes.” Her whisper held evidence of deep turmoil. “But my heart is breaking. And even though he won’t admit it, so is his. We have to keep seeking, no matter what he says.” She gripped Lydia’s hand and looked at Micah. “Take Allan’s car and go tonight. Find Nic. Find Nicky. Allan stores a loaded pistol under the driver’s seat. Do whatever you must to bring my grandson home again.” She scurried for the stairway.
Lydia watched her mother depart, then turned to Micah. Her face was white, but her eyes held determination. “Are you ready?”
Micah’s pulse galloped. “You bet,” he said. Then he followed Lydia out the back door, a prayer rising from his heart. Lord, guide us and keep us—all of us, including Nic—safe.
“Look . . . isn
’t that Nic’s truck?” Micah’s voice was croaky but carried a note of excitement.
Lydia gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, searching the shadows in the direction Micah had pointed. The car’s hooded headlights showed trash-strewn streets, weed-speckled yards, and run-down apartments. As much as she wanted to find Nicky, she almost hoped Micah was wrong about the truck. The idea of Nicky being trapped in such a dismal place made her shudder.
She rolled to a stop next to the truck, and recognition exploded in her mind. “It’s his. So this is it.” Immediately, within her stomach, butterflies whirled into a wild dance of both apprehension and anticipation. “I’ll park, and we’ll go in.”
A trio of rough-looking young men leaned against a nearby building, scowling in Lydia’s direction as she pulled up to the curb. She gulped. “Do you think it’s safe to get out?”
“We’ll be all right. Grab the flashlight, will you?”
Lydia retrieved the battery-operated Streamlight her father kept in the glove box while Micah pawed under the driver’s seat. She pushed the switch on the brass flashlight and its beam fell on the pistol’s barrel as he slipped the weapon into his waistband. A band of fear wrapped around Lydia’s chest, impeding her breathing. How she prayed he’d have no need to utilize the pistol.
He twisted the door handle. “All right. Let’s go.”
Micah caught her hand when she rounded the Studebaker’s hood. Shivers ran like spiders up and down her spine. Clinging tight to Micah’s hand, she aimed the flashlight’s beam forward and kept one eye on the young men. They fell silent and stared at her and Micah, but none of them approached. Relieved, she watched her feet as Micah guided her toward the apartment building closest to Nic’s truck.
The three risers leading to a square concrete stoop hosted a jagged crack climbing from bottom to top, its erratic pattern reminding Lydia of the part a little girl might make in her doll’s hair. Crumpled newspapers and broken bottles hugged the foundation of the building in lieu of flowers or bushes. Faded red bricks and crumbling mortar formed the outside façade, and paint-chipped shutters hung haphazardly from window casings. The entire structure held a weary, hapless appearance that created an ache in the center of Lydia’s chest.
Sweet Sanctuary Page 19
