Ulterior Motives

by Terri Blackstock

“I don’t believe it,” Tracy said.

  Beth felt her cheeks growing hot, and she tightened her lips. “Well, you’d better believe it, because maybe that purpose is to save and protect your son.”

  Tracy shook her head as if to rid it of the cobwebs. “What about Lisa? Is she in danger, too?”

  “We’re trying to get her out of the home,” Nick said, “but we have to wait until the guy’s arrested.”

  She closed her eyes, taking in the horror of it all. “What have I done to my kids?” she whispered.

  More tears ran down the sides of her face, and Beth sat there staring at her for a long moment, feeling the pain that she didn’t want to feel, because she didn’t want to empathize with this woman who had abandoned her children. She wanted to hate her like she hated her own mother, but something about Tracy’s pain touched her, and she leaned over the bed and touched the woman’s hand.

  “Tracy, it’s not too late.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “It’s not too late to become somebody to your kids. It’s never too late until you’re dead.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Take it from a kid who’s been there.”

  Tracy brought both forearms up to cover her face. “I don’t want to do this!” she cried. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see my kids. I don’t want to face them, and they sure don’t want to face me!”

  “If Jimmy comes, we’ll help you,” Beth said.

  “And what if he doesn’t?” Tracy cried. “What if he gets into more trouble? What if someone grabs him? What if—”

  “Shhh,” Nick cut in, trying to calm her. “Jimmy’s a tough kid. He’ll be all right.”

  “What if he isn’t?” she screamed.

  The silence in the wake of her question lay heavy over the room. “He will,” Nick said finally. “Take my word for it. We’ll find him within the hour.”

  “What if he went back to that orphanage?” she demanded.

  “He would never go back there,” Beth said. “He knows how dangerous that would be.”

  Tracy’s sobs were deep, wrenching, soul-rending. “Are you sure I didn’t die?”

  Nick’s own eyes were filling with tears. “What do you mean, Tracy?”

  “When you found me lying there on that mattress, are you sure I wasn’t already dead?”

  “I’m sure,” he said, glancing uneasily at Beth. “You’re very much alive. Why would you ask a thing like that?”

  “Because,” Tracy choked out, “this feels like some kind of hell.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  It was getting darker. Jimmy knew that he couldn’t hitchhike, since police were probably already out looking for him. For all he knew, his face could be on the screen of every television in St. Clair by now.

  So he ran, as fast and as hard as he could, cutting I through yards and plowing through woods, trying to get to Beth’s house. His body was covered with sweat, and his shirt stuck to him, but he was glad that he had these running shoes. Bill hadn’t skimped on shoes for the kids who “worked” for him. They had to be black, and they had to be quiet—for quick getaways.

  His navigational skills were pretty good, just as his computer skills were, and he tried to remember where Bill had taken him the night he’d dropped him off at Beth’s house. He had turned here, and passed that railroad crossing, then turned again . . .

  By the time Jimmy found the long road that connected to Beth’s dirt road, two hours had passed since he’d left Lynda’s, and it was growing dark. He cut through the woods and hit the dirt road leading up to her house. He slowed to a walk as he headed up the dirt road, trying to catch his breath.

  Because there were no streetlights on Beth’s little dirt road, Jimmy was on the driveway before he saw that the house wasn’t there anymore.

  He squinted through the darkness at the gutted structure where he had hidden for so long, where he’d met the first adult who’d really cared about him in a long time, where he’d gotten to know the little puppy. He had known about the explosion, of course, but he had imagined it like one of those cartoon explosions, where one corner of a room gets soot on the walls, but nothing else is hurt. The condition of the house now stunned him, and he leaned back against a tree and slid down to the ground, almost dizzy with the reality of how close Beth had come to death.

  And with that chilling thought came another: Bill had probably expected Jimmy to be at Beth’s house, too. Had the bomb been as much for him as for Beth?

  He felt that familiar pain in his stomach at the thought that his sister could have been killed delivering the bomb or setting the newspaper building on fire. He grew nauseous at the thought of her beaten up and awaiting rescue. He had to hurry.

  But first he needed the gun.

  There was nothing left of her living room. If the gun had been there, it was ruined now. Then again, she might have taken it with her in the car when she’d tried to go to St. Petersburg the day of the explosion, knowing that Bill was after her.

  But where was the car?

  He tried to think. It wasn’t at Lynda’s. It could be at Nick’s. Or someone could have taken it to the hospital for her . . .

  Yes. The hospital. It wasn’t far from here. It shouldn’t take long to get there.

  He jogged back to the main road again, then cut through the trees skirting the street, hidden by the trees as well as the darkness.

  Forty-five minutes later, drenched with sweat and panting, he reached the hospital. He went from one row to another, ducking between cars, until he spotted Beth’s car. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the gun being there as he approached it, as if wishing could make it so. Please be there . . . please be there . . .

  The car was locked.

  He looked toward the front doors of the hospital. Would anyone recognize him if he went in? He had no choice. Sliding his hands into his jeans pockets, the same black ones he’d been wearing since Beth had found him, he ambled up to the doors and slipped into the lobby. There was a coat rack in the corner of the room, so he checked to see if anyone was looking, then went over and grabbed a coat hanger. He shoved it into the front of his jeans, then pulled his T-shirt out to hang over it.

  Quickly, he headed back out to Beth’s car. Just as Bill had taught him, he stretched the coat hanger into the shape he needed, then maneuvered it between the rubber and the top of the window. In seconds, he had hooked the hanger onto the lock and popped it open.

  When he opened the door, the light came on, making him feel vulnerable and exposed. He closed the door quickly, encasing himself in darkness.

  He felt around on the seat. No gun. He bent and felt under it. Nothing.

  Then he saw the glove compartment, and he punched the button and slowly pulled it open.

  The gun lay there on its side, filling him with bittersweet relief.

  His hands trembled as he took it. Quickly, he pulled his tee shirt up again. He stuck the barrel into his pants, as he’d seen it done on television, then tucked his shirt back over it.

  He was ready. He could face a standoff with Bill Brandon now. He could rescue his sister, and maybe some of the others. He was ready to do whatever he had to do. And if he had to go to jail—whether for burglary or for murder—to see Lisa freed from Bill’s bondage, then it would be worth it.

  He got back out of the car and started walking in the direction of SCCH. His courage rose with every step, until finally he was running again. He knew the way to the home from here. And those who were looking for him would never even think to look there.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The party that Bill Brandon had insisted on having at the home was a first. He had never had one before—though occasionally local churches had given them Christmas parties—but this afternoon, he’d told the children that he was throwing a birthday party to celebrate all of the birthdays that occurred throughout the year. Everyone would be the guest of honor. He had let Lisa out of the back room for the occasion. Though Stella had dressed her up in he
r newest dress, she was pale and drawn. Weak from the fear of further punishment, she sat in a corner as the festivities unfolded around her.

  This was some kind of trick, she thought wearily. He had called the television stations, and cameras went around the room, filming the happy faces of the children as they ate cake or tore into their presents—rag dolls for the girls and plastic race cars for the boys. It was as if he was trying to make the world think that they always did this, that he cared about the children, that he wanted them to be happy. She wondered what the reporters and cameramen would think if they knew where she’d been for the last day and a half, or if they could see the injuries under Brad’s clothes. He, too, sat very still against the wall, pale and quiet, as if the effort of speaking might cause too much pain.

  She got up, holding her rag doll by one arm, and went to the cluster of boys talking near Brad. She wasn’t welcome among them, she knew, especially since Jimmy wasn’t here anymore, but she wanted to hear what they were saying.

  “I heard Stella say he was expecting someone.”

  “Someone like who?”

  “Somebody from HRS, or cops, maybe. Probably what he warned us of the other day, after Jimmy got busted.”

  The faces in the circle changed, and Lisa couldn’t hold her silence anymore. “Are they gonna arrest us? Did we get caught?”

  “Shhhh,” Brad ordered. “Are you crazy? Somebody could hear you.”

  “I told you she was too little to keep a secret.”

  “I am not too little,” she returned. “I have kept the secret. But I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “That’s where Jimmy is,” Kevin said.

  “He is not! They don’t have computers in jail!”

  “Lisa, shut up!” Brad warned.

  “Well, they don’t!”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Kevin asked.

  “Because Jimmy e-mailed me—”

  Brad grabbed her wrist and jerked her to shut her up, when the other boys’ eyes widened to the size of quarters. “You heard from him?”

  “I’m not saying nothing,” Brad said. “And neither is she. Are you, Lisa?” She didn’t answer. “I can just tell you that Jimmy’s not in jail.”

  “Well, what if he snitched on us? What if that’s why the cops are coming?”

  “It might be why,” Brad said, looking back over the festive children and the cameras still going. “But I don’t think so.”

  The door opened, and Bill came in, all smiles and laughter.

  He tried to act as if he genuinely loved all of the children in the home, bending over them and hugging them, wishing them happy birthday for the sake of the cameras.

  “Why would Bill want cameras here if the cops are coming?”

  “Maybe to show the world that he’s really a nice guy, and that we’re all happy kids who love it here, so that whatever Jimmy told them won’t seem true,” Keith said. “I wonder if he told them about my leg.”

  “He should have,” Lisa whispered.

  Brad hugged himself around the ribs that were probably broken. “I don’t really care what he told them. I don’t even care what happens to me. I just want them to get Bill. And I hope he tries to escape and they shoot him, just bad enough for him to hurt and see what it feels like. Then I hope he dies.”

  The other children only gazed at him, caught up in the terrors they wished on their keeper.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Weird,” Larry told Tony via cell phone. Tony had followed the judge home and was now watching the house. Larry had set up his equipment on the second floor of the hardware store across the street, a vantage point from which he could see most of the buildings on the campus of SCCH. “Brandon just made it back to the home, and it looks like there’s a party going on here. Television vans, music . . . I can see into the game room through a window, and I see balloons and streamers. Not exactly what I would have expected from a man who’s desperate and knows we’re coming after him.”

  “Sure it is. It’s brilliant PR,” Tony said. “He’s trying to make the press think he’s a wonderful guy. Get them all psyched up, so that when they get the real story, they won’t believe it. Either that, or he can use it in court. ‘Well, to be perfectly honest, Judge, I was just minding my own business giving a party for my beloved children, when the gestapo cops broke the doors down and arrested me in front of all of them. I only hope they’re not traumatized for life.’”

  “He knows we can’t touch him tonight. Not until Judge Wyatt gives us the warrant, and you and I both know he won’t do it.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. What if we went to the judge and told him what we know?”

  “Like blackmail, Tony?”

  “More like cutting a deal. We tell him that we saw him talking to Brandon, then he gives us that warrant, hoping we’ll forget what we saw.”

  “No way,” Larry said. “He’s going down with Brandon. No deals.”

  Tony got quiet for a moment, thinking. “Then call the captain at home,” he said. “Tell him about Wyatt’s meeting with Brandon. Then try to get him to go to the prosecutor for two warrants tonight—for both of them.”

  “All right,” Larry said. “But I don’t want to leave for a while yet. I want to see how this party pans out. It could get interesting.”

  “At least the kids are safe while the cameras are there.”

  “Yeah. It’s after they leave that I’m worried about. Any word on Jimmy?”

  “Not yet. Lynda and Jake are basket cases. They’ve been out looking for him since he left.”

  “I hope that kid’s all right,” Larry said. “I just wonder what he’s got up his sleeve.”

  “I’m just hoping he left of his own free will, and didn’t get abducted without anyone knowing it.”

  “Well, we know Brandon and Wyatt didn’t get him. I’d say he’s just out there hiding somewhere, trying to figure out who he can trust.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not the wrong person.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Larry’s car was the first thing Jimmy saw when he approached the children’s home from the woods behind the hardware store. Larry must be in there, watching Bill. The fact that they’d put so much effort into watching him—yet couldn’t arrest him—only reinforced the idea that Bill would get off scot-free. Nothing ever happened to Bill Brandon.

  Jimmy stayed back in the shadows of the trees, trying to figure out how to get close to the cottages without Larry seeing him. He peered through the trees at the activity building. Something was going on at the home. It looked like a party. And television vans were outside.

  He crossed the street a block down the road, then stole through the woods, staying in the shadows so Larry wouldn’t see him. He came up on the other side of the building, out of Larry’s sight, and peered through the window of the activities building. He saw Stella being interviewed by a local reporter, and across the room, Bill and some of the other employees of SCCH were also talking to reporters, smiling, laughing, gesturing at the balloons, the crepe paper, the happy children.

  But not all the children were happy. Jimmy saw his sister Lisa sitting alone, holding a Raggedy Ann doll that she didn’t seem interested in. She didn’t look good. Near her, Brad sat hugging himself with a pallid, pained expression. Some of the guys around Brad whispered among themselves.

  Jimmy turned from the window and looked across the lawn toward the cottages. The lights were all turned off. Maybe if he went in now and hid in the cottage where Lisa stayed, he could get her out tonight before anyone realized he was around. Brad had said he’d leave Stella’s window open. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten.

  Stealing through the trees, he came up on the back door of Cottage B. He went to Stella’s room and tried the window. It slid open easily. Quietly, he climbed in, shut the window behind him, and headed farther into the house. A strange mixture of sensations overwhelmed him as he walked through the building he had lived in for so long—homesickness and fear, f
amiliarity and terror. Had any of this been worth it? Maybe everyone would have been better off if he had just found a way to get out of that attic and back to Bill . . .

  No, that wasn’t right. Eventually, Bill would have used Lisa in his little schemes, anyway. Eventually, Jimmy would not have been able to protect her. Eventually, Bill would have gone too far and killed one of the children. Eventually, they would have been caught. No, he had done the right thing. And what he was about to do was even more right—he had to save Lisa from Bill Brandon.

  He went into the bedroom where he and Brad and Keith had slept, along with five other boys, in the bunk beds lined against the walls. Going to the bed that used to be his, he looked under it for the box of his belongings. They were gone; now another boy’s shoes were there. Had Bill already replaced him? A sinking feeling began to pull him under. The feeling surprised him. He didn’t live here anymore—didn’t want to. But he didn’t want to be forgotten, either.

  He went to Lisa’s room. He found his box hidden under her bed, and felt relieved that his sister had protected his things. She hadn’t forgotten him.

  He sat down on her bed, feeling so helpless, so dismal, so confused.

  “It’s not fair,” he whispered to the darkness. “It’s just not fair.” He had done little to deserve all of this: the risks, the danger, the sadness. And Lisa had done even less. He closed his eyes and wished he had been able to protect her from the past few days. She was tiny, helpless—just the way Bill liked them.

  Jimmy hoped he was getting to her in time. He knew she would expect him to rescue her, to make all the evil go away, to set everything right. She had always thought he was some kind of superkid, and he hadn’t minded it. She’d looked up to him like he was her father. But he wasn’t—and didn’t have any more idea of how a father acted than she did.

  He thought of the few men he knew that he admired. He admired Nick—the way he had gotten Beth out of the fire after her explosion and taken care of her. Nick had rescued Jimmy’s mother, too—although part of Jimmy wished she had died. But then Nick was also the one who had placed him and Lisa in this home.