by Karen Harter
Tyson shook his head. “Those things are ancient. I looked up U.S. presidents and the last one in there was Richard Nixon. What if you want to know about something that happened last week? I promise, once you see how it works, you’ll be hooked. You’ll probably be online all day.”
“I’m too old and it’s too complicated. Now, quit changing the subject. I believe we were discussing your science project.”
Tyson frowned, sighing dramatically. “I don’t want to do this. I’m not even interested in science.”
“Yes, you are.” Millard gestured out the window. “Everything out there in those woods that fascinates you is science. What do you wonder about when you’re out there on your belly observing the animals? Surely you must have questions. Don’t you get curious when you look at the stars and galaxies? What holds our universe together? How is it that the human body needs the very things that nature provides?” The boy was slouched and practically oozing from a dining room chair, tapping his fingernails on Molly’s mahogany table. Was anything Millard said getting through? “All you have to do is come up with a question. Your project is simply the process of finding your answer.”
“I can’t think of a question.”
Millard huffed a sigh of frustration as he pushed out his chair. He walked to the window. Why did this kid have to make everything so hard? It was a drizzly November Tuesday. The trees in his yard were almost bare except for a sparse crowd of stubborn leaves still clinging to their branches. They might as well let go, Millard thought. They were destined to rot along with the others that carpeted his yard. He had given up on raking them, partly because it was a hopeless cause and partly because they hid the unsightly molehills that dotted his once immaculate lawn. “I don’t know if I’ve got one tenacious mole or an army of them,” he commented. “Wish I could see what’s going on underground.”
Ty joined him at the window. “Are there any new mounds?”
Millard pointed. “There and there. I’m going to have to break down and order one of those traps, I guess. Trouble is, I don’t know where to put it. How am I supposed to know where the little rat is headed next?”
Ty glanced over at him smugly. “You get on the Internet and find out about a mole’s network system. I’ll bet it’ll even tell you if moles are territorial, in which case you’d know whether he’s working alone or not.”
Millard rubbed his chin. “Maybe how to trap ’em, too.”
“I could hook up my computer over here. All we’d need is an outlet and a phone jack.” The kid’s motives were not pure. He had complained since day one of not being able to play his computer games while imprisoned at Millard’s house. “Did I mention that you can play Wheel of Fortune online—and you don’t have to wait until seven o’clock?”
Millard pretended that didn’t interest him in the least. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said after some thought. “I’ll get the Internet. You get me that mole.”
Tyson’s brows rose. “Huh?”
“Do your science project on moles. Their habits, motivation, active seasons—everything we’ve ever wondered about them. And then you create a way to destroy him—or them. Maybe even build a trap. We could certainly put something together out in that garage. I’ve got a soldering iron, you know.”
Tyson seemed to ponder as he strolled from window to window. When the phone rang, the boy answered, responding to the court’s computerized voice recognition system automatically. The daily phone calls were just an accepted part of their day. He hung up and turned back to Millard. “Okay. I’ll get that little sucker.” He glanced around the room. “Where do you want to set up the computer?”
Millard was clearing the top of the little desk in the dining room where he managed his mail and paid bills when he heard a string of expletives escape from Tyson’s throat. The boy jumped to his feet, staring out the window. Millard’s eyes darted to the house across the street. A man was reaching up to Sissy and Rebecca’s window, trying to push it open. He moved to the next window—Tyson’s—and when it didn’t budge, he slunk around the corner of the house. The boy charged toward the front door.
“Hey!” Millard yelled. “Come back here!” By the time he got to the door, Tyson was already across the street. He snatched the phone from its cradle and punched in 911.
“There’s an intruder at—well, directly across the street from 727 Boulder Road.”
“Is anyone in the home?”
“Yes—I don’t know. My”—he floundered for the right noun—“my grandson ran over there. I can’t see anyone now.”
He couldn’t wait for the operator’s next question. He tossed the phone to his chair and ran out the door. His breath came short as he rounded the corner of the Walker house. There was no one in sight. Suddenly he heard loud shouts and a thud. The back porch railing wiggled in his hand as he climbed the steps. The back door was open.
“Get out of here!” The boy’s high-pitched voice came from the direction of Sidney’s room. “There’s nothing left to steal, you bastard!”
“Back off, kid. I just came for a visit, that’s all. This is between your mother and me. Just stay out of it.”
Millard heard a loud crash. “Get out of my mom’s room. Get out of my house!” Millard glanced around the kitchen, grabbing a marble rolling pin, for lack of a better weapon, as he headed toward the hall. Another crash. The strange man backed down the hall toward Millard, Tyson menacingly pushing him forward with the legs of a spindle-backed chair.
The guy had a gruesome tattoo crawling around his neck. An evil snicker crept from his throat. “You playing lion tamer, boy? You always liked to pretend. Think you can tame your old man?” He chuckled again. “You’re not the first one to tr—”
Millard brought the rolling pin over the stranger’s head, jerking it tightly against his Adam’s apple. “Maybe you’re not worth the trouble, you pathetic ground-dwelling mole.” He liked his little analogy, surprised by it as much as the fact that he had just apprehended the bad guy. Suddenly he felt a painful kick to his shin. An elbow thrust like a battering ram into his rib cage and he folded.
He saw a flurry of legs. Tyson hurled his weight forward and both bodies crashed to the dining room floor. Millard tried to stand erect. The pain in his ribs made him catch his breath. Tyson’s fists flailed wildly against the intruder, his lips murmuring fevered words that no lady should ever hear. A lifetime of grievances, no doubt.
Tyson’s father pushed him off. “Don’t make me maim you, you son of a—”
“Son of a what? A loser?” Ty grabbed at him again. The man swung his arm hard, smacking the boy across the face and sending him sprawling against the wall. He grabbed one of Sidney’s heavy oak dining chairs and held it over Tyson, poised to bring it down.
Millard dove. Man and chair came down hard against the table. He heard the sound of breaking wood. Millard started to push himself up from the floor. Another kick caught him, this time on the side of his head.
Tyson screamed a curse. “You touch him again and I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I mean it!” The boy sobbed between threats.
Millard wanted to get up, but his body wouldn’t move. He heard more scuffling, more taunting, a shattering crash. The window. They had broken the window. He pushed himself into a kneeling position. There was blood on the carpet where his face had been. Sirens. Help was coming. One set of footsteps pounded through the kitchen toward the back door, and then there was silence. “Tyson? Tyson, are you all right?” He felt around for the nearest chair, using it for support as he tried to pull himself up. A sharp stab of pain made him sink back to the floor amid shattered pieces of Sidney’s lovely hand-painted table.
The boy crawled to him. “Millard!” Ty’s lips were bloody and swollen, his eyes still wild with terror. He reached out, touching Millard’s arm. “What did he do to you?”
Millard shook his head, wrapping the boy tightly in his long, gangly arms and pulling him close. He was trembling. “The question is, what has that bastard
done to you, son?” Tyson’s body melted into his embrace.
29
SIDNEY’S OFFICE was only a few minutes away from the Ham Bone branch of the Winger County Sheriff’s Department. She found herself speeding, though Alex had assured her over the phone that Tyson was all right. She pulled into the parking lot, grabbed her purse, and headed for the entrance of the century-old building without bothering to lock her car.
A middle-aged woman greeted her at the front desk and led her to a room down the hall. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked as she opened the door. Ty sat alone at a weary oak table in the middle of the small room. Sidney shook her head absently. “No, thank you.”
“Tyson.” She went to him, appalled by the damage on her son’s face. He held an ice pack to one cheek. His lips were split and swollen, and a butterfly bandage had been placed on the brow of one already colorful eye. “Your father did this to you?”
Ty looked away from her.
“Oh, Tyson.” She began to cry. The door opened and Alex walked in. He acknowledged them with a nod as he pulled out a chair for Sidney and sat opposite them. “Are you sure nothing’s broken?” she said.
“The medics checked him out before releasing him to me. We should know something from the hospital about Mr. Bradbury soon. Thanks for waiting, Tyson. I couldn’t question you until your mom was here.”
Tyson ignored him, fixing his narrowed eyes on his mother. “Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing him again?”
“I’m not seeing him! What made you think—”
“He said he’s moving back to Ham Bone and you know all about it. He’s been at our house before. He was going through your drawers. He’s the one who stole your money and your stupid jewelry! I told you it wasn’t me.”
Sidney dropped her head into her hands, vaguely aware of Alex sitting across the table from her. “Ty, I’m sorry.” She raised her eyes to his. “I had no idea. It never occurred to me that it was your father who stole from me.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”
Tyson refused to acknowledge her. His eyes, still burning with anger, were fixed on a spot on the old plaster wall.
Alex scribbled a note on a pad of paper, raising his brows toward Sidney. “I don’t believe you reported a theft.”
“I’m missing a gold bracelet, a couple of diamond rings and other jewelry—and some cash. I’ll make a list. Did you catch Dodge?”
Alex nodded, pulling something from his pants pocket and dropping it to the worn wood table. A stone-studded gold ring rolled toward the center, wobbled, and fell flat. “Look what I found.”
Sidney breathed a sigh of relief. “Amilia’s?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dodge have it?”
Alex shook his head. “Tyson, I owe you an apology, too.”
Ty’s head moved slowly in the deputy’s direction.
“I moved Amilia’s TV console to make room for the chest your mom painted. This was hiding in the dust behind the drape. ’Milia thinks it must have been knocked off when she watered her plants. She just didn’t notice it missing until the other things were stolen.”
Again, Ty looked away, feigning disinterest.
Alex cleared his throat and turned to Sidney. “We have your ex-husband in custody. His old beater was parked a half mile down the road from your place. That’s probably how he snuck into the house unnoticed before.” Alex rubbed his shoulder. “It took two of us to wrestle him down. He was as high as a kite—probably PCP.” She noticed for the first time a slight abrasion on Alex’s temple, a bruise on the knuckles of his right hand. “There are two existing warrants out for his arrest—auto theft and possession of narcotics with intent to sell. You’ve got him for failure to pay child support, breaking and entering, theft.” He glanced at Ty. “If he’s convicted of all these crimes, he’ll be put away for a long time. Is that what you want, Tyson?”
Ty’s lips quivered. “I hope you send him straight to hell.”
The bottled rage in her son’s words chilled her. She reached for him but he pulled away. She had not believed him. His own mother. How alone he must have felt. It was no wonder he was bitter. She felt helpless. Sinking. How would he ever heal?
“I want to see Millard.” Ty’s face was void of expression, his eyes hard.
Alex stood, reaching for a phone on a small table against one wall. “I’ll call the hospital.” He punched in a number and waited. “Sheriff’s Department. Checking on Millard Bradbury. He was brought into emergency about forty minutes ago.” He waited. “Can he talk on the phone? Well, what do you know? Broken ribs,” he repeated aloud, “possible concussion. Anything else?” He listened intently, his mouth slowly forming a smirk. “Okay, thanks.” He snapped the phone closed. “Apparently your friend Millard has a daughter who doesn’t like him playing the hero. Sounds like she’s giving him a worse beating than he already got.”
“When’s he coming home?” Tyson asked.
“They want to keep him overnight.”
Sidney stood staring out the window as Alex began to question Ty about the specific events of the afternoon for his report. She cringed hearing her son repeat his father’s lethal remarks and the graphic details of the fight. The day had started out like any other. Now looking at Ty’s face was like gazing at an open wound. One she didn’t have the power to heal. Millard—dear, wonderful Millard who lived a sane, serene life before getting involved with her—lay in a hospital bed, broken and beaten by her ex-husband. Sidney felt the weight of a ship’s anchor lodged in her soul.
“Okay,” Alex said, “we’re just about done here. But we have one more issue to discuss, Tyson. You’re still on house arrest. Technically, you broke the stipulations of the court by leaving Mr. Bradbury’s custody, even just to run across the street to your own home. You know the rules. Also, according to all three statements, you were the one to initiate the physical attack. You took the law into your own hands instead of letting me and the other deputies do our jobs. Your probation officer will be notified of the incident and the court will have to decide—”
“Screw the court!” Tyson flew from his chair, knocking it backward; it crashed to the floor. “Screw you! Screw everybody!” His brown eyes almost bulged from his battered face. He charged for the door. “I’m not jumping through anybody’s hoops anymore. I’m out of here! Shoot me in the back if you want. I don’t give a crap!” He flung the door open.
In an instant Alex had Tyson pinned against the outside wall, Tyson’s arms pulled tautly behind his back. Alex snapped metal cuffs onto his wrists and shoved him back into the room, holding up a hand to signal to another deputy who had come running that he had things under control. He closed the door behind him and pushed Ty roughly into a hard-backed wooden chair. He leaned into Ty’s face. “You’d better start giving a crap!”
Sidney backed against the far wall, knowing she shouldn’t interfere.
Alex paced, saying nothing for a few moments. Tyson watched him, his eyes ablaze. Finally Alex turned back to him. “You and I have something in common. A major problem. We’re both trying to live life with wounds that won’t heal up and we’re so bitter that we’re self-destructing.”
This apparently was not what Ty expected to hear. His narrowed eyes showed signs of interest.
“Your father was supposed to love you. That’s what fathers are for. He should have been there for you, taken you places, told you he was proud. But he didn’t, did he? He should have kept his promises. He should have been a man of his word. Someone you could be proud of.”
Ty seemed to follow every word.
“I’m sorry he lied to you. I’m sorry he turned out to be a loser. I wish I could change that. I know your mom does, too, in the worst way.” He stared pensively at the floor. “I guess all our anger is never going to change another person’s character.”
Alex went quiet.
“So what happened to you?” Ty finally asked.
Alex shook his head. “It’s pretty hard to t
alk about.” He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, letting his head drop, then glanced up as if he had a revelation. “Do you ever feel ashamed to talk about it—like it’s your fault or something?”
Ty’s eyes began to flood. He looked away.
“My big brother screwed me over.” There was a long pause. “He seduced my wife. The thing went on for months right under my nose, and my brother was shining it on and lying to me the whole time.” Sidney noticed that Alex made no eye contact while divulging his secret. “She divorced me and married him.” He glanced up at Ty. “This is just between us, by the way.”
Ty nodded.
“I’ve been a jerk to you, haven’t I?”
Ty shrugged.
“I guess when you hate someone so much it comes out of you one way or another. It wasn’t fair for me to take it out on you. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
Alex stood, pulling Ty gently to his feet, unlocking the metal cuffs, and sitting him down again. He placed them on the table and then sat facing the boy, leaning forward and studying his hands as he rubbed them together. “You ever lie in bed at night with your gut twisting so bad you want to get up and break something?”
Tyson scoffed. “Or drink a case or two of beer?”
Alex chuckled. “Yeah. Tried that. Believe me, it didn’t help.” He looked at the airborne dust particles illuminated in a stream of light pouring through the window. “Some people say I need to forgive my brother. It was the last thing my pop said to me. How’s that for a guilt trip?” He directed his gaze to Ty’s swollen face. “I don’t know how to do that. It would be one thing if my brother were sorry, but he’s not. He’s moved on and I’m still walking around bleeding.”
“Yeah. It’s not fair.”
Alex stood again and began pacing. “You don’t go to church, do you, Ty?”
Ty shook his head; Sidney looked down at her feet.
