Thin gloves, clean and black, fingered the windowsill outside the Flemings' guestroom once again that afternoon. The figure knew he shouldn't be here—it was an unnecessary risk, silly, particularly in the daylight. But all three Flemings were away at work or school, and he had to know.
He scanned his surroundings for spying neighbors—noting the irony that they might be spying on his spying—and found none. He peeked inside the window. The bed covers were in disarray. He smiled—they had kept the boy. He knew that already, had known for days, but somehow seeing visible evidence put him more at ease.
Until now, the figure had been too busy tracking down McWrait's drug ring to check on the boy again. One dealer's name—Ditch—had been popping up a lot, and he intended to locate the man and follow his movements, see where they led him. He had already landed one blow against McWrait and hoped to land another for good measure.
In the meantime, his plan was proceeding well. There was no need for him to intervene. That was fortunate. He dared not be discovered—not by the Flemings, and not by the authorities.
The Flemings' yellow dog discovered him, though; it loped around the corner and stopped, eyeing him cautiously. It was time to go. The dog did not bark, but merely stood its ground and watched as the figure exited through the side gate and into the neighborhood, jogging away.
*****
The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain Page 40