“No.” Steve seemed inordinately interested in a file on the top of his desk. A file that was a good four feet from eyes that had recently been diagnosed as needing glasses.
Kirk had good instincts about people. He could read them in seconds flat. And those were the ones he didn’t know. With Steve it didn’t take that long.
“But you know something.”
McDonald looked up, resignation in his eyes. “Give me the damn doughnuts.”
Kirk silently handed them over.
“You want one?”
He stood in front of Steve’s desk, the tips of his fingers in his front pockets. “I don’t think so.”
“Abraham won’t be coming back.”
“What?” Kirk didn’t bother to regulate his voice. That early in the morning, the school was deserted. “Where is he? Wouldn’t you think someone ought to let his basketball coach know that, seeing we’ve just made the play-offs and he’s our star player.”
This had nothing to do with basketball. Steve’s lingering scrutiny told Kirk the principal knew that.
“You’d have received a notice in your box this morning, along with the rest of Abraham’s teachers.”
“A notice that says what?”
“That he’s withdrawn from Menlo Ranch.”
“And?”
“That’s all.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Look, Kirk, I can’t say any more. There are privacy issues here.”
“Oh, and there weren’t privacy issues when you partied all night before your English final in senior year and stole the test key to commit it to memory an hour before the test?”
It was information that, if released, could hurt the reputation of a junior-high-school principal. Not irreparably after all this time, but hurt just the same.
McDonald studied him, his blue eyes piercing. “You’d actually let that out.”
“I have to know where to find Billings.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I’m going to help that boy.”
“So the end justifies the means?”
“I need to know where he is.”
After another moment of study, McDonald nodded. “I understand. And we both know that I’m going to give you the information.” He looked over at Kirk, his gaze not wavering for a second. “But we both need to acknowledge something else, first,” he said. “Whether I tell you about Abraham Billings or not, you and I both know you had no intention of saying a word about my past.”
Kirk appreciated Steve’s loyalty. But he spent much more time in honest introspection these days. “I’ve been known to do whatever it takes to get what I want.”
“You’ve never sold out a friend.”
“I sold out my own father.”
“Only after he and your mother spent a lifetime selling you out.”
Kirk reared back. “What the hell are you talking about?” Steve must be getting his story mixed up with someone else’s. Not that it really mattered, but Kirk was insulted, anyway.
“They couldn’t be bothered with the hard work of raising a kid, so they paid your way out of every mess you got into.”
“They paid my way out of jail.”
“They robbed you of every chance to make mistakes, be accountable for them on a kid scale, and learn the necessary lessons. Instead, you had to learn them a much harder way, and pay on a much grander scale.”
Kirk stood there for a full minute, attempting to arrange the pieces Steve was trying to give him into the puzzle that he knew was his life. Any way he looked at them, they didn’t fit.
“Remember when we were five years old and all the guys were trying out for T-ball?” Steve asked.
“Vaguely.”
“We all had a great time at the try-outs. Yeah, we were scared we weren’t going to make the team, but we worked up the courage to try anyhow. And experienced the thrill of genuine victory when we were all chosen.”
“So?”
“Your father sponsored the team, bought brand-new uniforms for everyone with the Desert Oasis logo on the back, and in return, you automatically got a place on the team. You didn’t get the chance we did to face the possibility of failure. And then to succeed. And I don’t think any of the guys ever forgot that the whole year.”
He never felt a part of that team. But then, in his old life, Kirk had never been a team player. He was the only player. And a winner.
“And what about that time in high school when you were running for student body president and your father bought boxes of pizza on voting day?”
Kirk looked at his watch. “Much as I’d like to continue this trip down memory lane, I’ve got to get outside,” he said. “What’s the scoop on Billings?”
HE MADE IT OUT to his post but had to force himself to gentle his voice so he didn’t bark at the kids. The only thing keeping him focused at all was watching for Valerie’s car. He had to talk to her. She’d know what to do.
Hell, small as the juvenile court community was, she probably knew the judge who’d made such an incredible error.
Not that the who mattered to him. What he wanted from Valerie was a way to undo the damage that had been done yesterday to a very special boy—before it was too late to get him back.
Valerie had a meeting downtown and started to drive off before Kirk even managed his morning wave. He flagged her down instead. And got a quick affirmation that she’d meet him for coffee that evening. Then she was speeding away from him. Leaving him with a frown on his face and a load of frustration building inside.
How the hell was he going to wait until nine o’clock that night to set in motion the plan to save his star basketball player? And what was happening to Billings in the meantime?
Whatever it was, Kirk had a feeling that ignoring a minor infraction—the kid smoking a cigarette outside a cemetery—would have been a better option than sending him away.
BY THE TIME Valerie’s car pulled up outside the coffee shop that evening, Kirk had passed beyond angry to livid. Frustration and worry—with no action—did not set well with him.
For the first part of the day, he’d alternated between living in the past, reliving his own brief stint under the state’s care, and hoping Abraham was someplace other than the detention cell he’d been in. The state might not call it jail, but anyone who’d been sent to detention knew exactly what it was.
Judges could do anything, but surely they wouldn’t send a kid to detention for missing school.
He’d pressed Steve McDonald. The other man had no idea where they’d taken the kid.
And then later, once he’d found out where the boy actually was, he’d railed against his own helplessness.
“Hey,” Valerie called as she slid out of her Mercedes.
“You have your heart set on coffee?” Kirk asked.
“Not really.”
“Let’s go for a drive. My car.”
She frowned, but walked beside him, climbing into the passenger side of the Vette as he held the door open for her.
“What’s up?”
He shook his head. This wasn’t a conversation he could have while driving. Not with the emotion churning through him—worsened by near panic at the fact that he could still experience such negative feelings. He’d thought, since his transformation, he’d left all that behind him.
He’d meant to.
“I just wanted to get away from the glare of the parking-lot lights,” he told her.
“Okay. You mad?”
“No.”
“Did I do something?”
“God, no.” He gave her a quick smile. At least he hoped not. Juvenile court was a relatively small place. It wasn’t completely unlikely that Valerie was the judge assigned to Abraham’s case.
It wasn’t likely, either. Surely she would’ve said something. All the conversations they’d had about Abraham… No, he’d just had too many hours to blow the whole thing out of proportion.
“But you are angry about someth
ing?”
He nodded. “Let me find a place to park this thing and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Did my sons do something wrong?”
“Of course not. Brian ate an entire hot dog for lunch today.” It was the highlight of Kirk’s day.
“The whole thing?” He could see her grin as a car approached from the opposite direction.
“Every bite.”
His key player was out, but they’d won their game.
He turned off at the first lay-by he came to along the Beeline Highway—a scenic view during the day. He shut off the ignition and turned to face her in the darkness. Would he ever have a conversation with this woman during which he could see her face?
“So what’s up?” Her voice was soft, compassionate, soothing him with the reassurance that she’d do whatever she could.
A car passed, and then nothing. The highway, really just a two-lane desert road connecting Fountain Hills to the Mesa-Phoenix area, had very little traffic this time of night.
“Abraham Billings has been taken by the state.”
Once the car was out of sight, they were engulfed in blackness.
“Oh.”
Not quite the reaction he’d been expecting.
“He’s been withdrawn from Menlo Ranch.”
She was facing him, one knee resting against the stick shift. “That’s standard procedure when a child is taken into state custody. It’s best to transfer him from a place that isn’t serving him well to an environment where he can get a fresh start.”
“You sound as though you approve of this decision.”
“I’m sure that if indeed the courts removed him from his home, the decision was made with all due consideration.”
Well, at least now he knew she wasn’t the judge he was furious with.
“It’s the worst thing that could’ve happened to that kid!” He’d meant to keep the intensity out of his voice, but some habits apparently didn’t die.
Even when whole lives did.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CALMING HIMSELF with a skill created by years of discipline, Kirk noticed Valerie’s expression in the lights from an oncoming car. He’d expected compassion. Concern. What he got was—stoicism. “He wouldn’t have been removed without substantial evidence,” she said. He’d sure as hell called this one wrong.
When billion-dollar hostile takeovers were at stake he could get it right every time. But to save one relatively small boy…
“I’m sure there was evidence,” he said, scrambling for plan B. Caught unprepared. Something else that wouldn’t have happened during a negotiation. Kirk had never gone to an important meeting without at least six backup plans of varying degrees. “It was obvious the kid had problems,” he continued. “I’m not arguing that. It’s the approach to handling those problems to which I object. They took him away from the one thing that had a chance of saving him.”
“What’s that?”
“Basketball.”
Her sigh said it all. Or at least as much as he needed to hear. “The state has incredible facilities, Kirk, with highly trained professionals who will see that Abraham gets everything he needs.”
“He’s not going to respond to a bunch of professionals,” Kirk said, getting frustrated all over again as he tried to make her understand. “Abraham is far too closed off for that. He’s been there, done that, heard and seen it all—and doesn’t believe any of it.”
“I’ve seen them work miracles on kids a lot tougher than Abraham Billings.”
“He isn’t like most kids. He’s got more savvy, more insight than a lot of adults I know. I have a feeling he’s lived most of his life on instinct, and at this point, he’s positive that the only person he can trust is himself.”
“Even more reason for him to be in a place where people are watching out for him, showing him that there are people he can trust to look out for his best interests.”
Kirk released a long, heavy sigh, shaking his head in disappointment. How was he going to get her cooperation if he couldn’t even get her to see the truth? It was like talking to her about Brian and basketball all over again.
“Abraham had hope in nothing when I first met him,” Kirk said. “The change that came over that kid when he got on the basketball court was phenomenal to watch. He slowly started to believe that there was something to work for. Something that was good in life—something that could be his. Basketball was his ticket to college, to the hope of a better life.”
“He’s in junior high, Kirk. There’ll be plenty of time for that.”
“Not if he gives up the hope. Don’t you see? Abraham acts like a kid who’s always had everything that mattered taken away from him. This move only reinforces that belief. Not only did he lose his mother—whom he obviously adored—but he lost basketball, too. The chances that he’ll go back to it at some later point in his life are pretty slim. If for no other reason than because he’ll have quit believing in anything.
“And that aside, this kid who’s had a shit life finally finds something he loves, something for himself, something he’s good at, someplace to shine and get some positive attention. He’s no sooner beginning to gain some confidence from that than it’s snatched away from him.”
“Judges don’t make decisions like this lightly, Kirk,” Valerie said, her tone probably not as condescending as it sounded to him. “If Abraham is in custody, it’s because that’s exactly where he needs to be.”
Kirk knew all about judges and their decisions. Often made after reading a folder full of papers and seeing a kid for—what—five minutes? Maybe a little more, depending on how much there was to discuss.
“You sound as if you agree with this,” he said, quietly now. The Vette was too small for this conversation.
“I know all the judges in the juvenile court system. I trust them all. Completely.”
The day had gone from hellish to unbelievably hellish. “You judges are all alike,” he snapped, rejecting the truth even as he had to face it. He’d thought she was different. “You’re always playing God, thinking you know everything because you’re privy to a damn report. Thinking you automatically know what’s right in any given situation. Do you even know how arrogant you are?”
She turned, faced the windshield, her arms crossed in front of her. He’d pissed her off. Well, he was pretty damn pissed, himself. He’d expected more from her. And from himself.
“I wish I had some of God’s insights,” she said. He wasn’t fooled by the softness with which she uttered the words. “It would make my job a whole lot easier.”
He could feel the defensive energy coming from her. And still couldn’t stop. The Kirk Chandler of old. “How does a piece of paper and a couple of questions asked of a scared kid give you the right to determine the shape of his entire life?”
She looked over at him, seeming to study him in the darkness. She didn’t answer right away. When she did, she sounded more weary than anything else. “People come into my court counting on me to make a decision,” she said. “What if I’m not sure? They don’t want to hear that. They want an answer. Even if it isn’t the right one.” She laid her head back against the seat, eyes facing out into the night. “Every day when I enter the courtroom, I remind myself that all I can do is my best. I make the calls as I see them. And pray that the kids under my care will be okay.”
He couldn’t argue with that. No matter how much he hated what had happened to Abraham, he’d be the last person to expect people to do better than their best.
“I’m assuming this means you won’t be in favor of trying to help me get him back.”
“If he was removed by the court, his mother has the right to a hearing in five days,” she said.
“Do you know the judge in charge?”
“I’m not free to answer that question.”
He’d already guessed that. Soft thuds filled the silence as Kirk tapped the leather steering wheel with the side of his thumb.
“If he’s not coming
back, I’m going to see him.”
She started. He could only see her silhouette, but her face was turned toward him. “You know where he is?”
She sounded more alarmed than amazed at his abilities.
“I’d given him my number. He called this afternoon.”
“You talked to him?”
“No.” Kirk shook his head. He slumped down, his head along the back of the seat as he stared out into the darkness. He didn’t need to see the terrain to know that it was a huge expanse of seemingly barren desert. “He left a message.”
But no phone number. And Kirk had been kicking himself half the day for missing that chance to connect with the boy.
“What did he say?”
“He called to tell me he was sorry he wouldn’t be at the game. And before he hung up, he gave me the address of his foster home.”
Abraham had not sounded pleased with the place.
At least it wasn’t jail.
But listening to a kid who’d clearly given up, it might as well have been.
Valerie faced the front, both feet on the floor, her hands on her knees. “You can’t go see him, Kirk.”
It was no plea.
“Is that a court order?”
“Of course not. The judge on the case would have to order it, and there’s no reason to do so. It’s just common sense.”
“It makes no sense to me at all, common or not.”
“Abraham needs a chance to get used to where he is, to need the people he’s with, to see that they can help him and to learn to trust them.”
Her words carried the compassion of a mother—if a misguided one.
“I think he trusts me.” He put on his seat belt.
Doing the same, Valerie ignored his hint that the conversation was over. “The people he’s with are trained to help him.”
“You know who he’s with? Where he is?”
“I know how the courts work. They wouldn’t take a child from his mother without making sure he was getting the proper counseling and care.”
“I’ve got news for you,” Kirk said, pulling out on to the highway, breaking the speed limit to get back to town, to her car. To free himself from her presence. “Courts make mistakes.”
For the Children Page 14