Michael's House (Reunion: Hannah, Michael & Kate #2)

by Pat Warren

  I pray that one day Sloan’s Christopher and my three beautiful children will all be reunited, God willing.

  Chapter 8

  Michael was lucky. Sergeant Sam Damien was in his office even though it was Sunday night because a teenage girl had been attacked and left bleeding in an alleyway in his district. Sam’s voice was clipped and angry. The creep who’d slashed the fifteen-year-old on her way home from the movies was the same age, but with a rap sheet longer than a dead snake. Another half an inch and he’d have punctured her carotid artery. Sam’s large hand was balled into a fist as his other gripped the phone.

  “Yeah, I remember, Michael. You wanted me to check on a kid called T.J.” Sam unclenched his fingers and rifled through a stack of folders until he found the one he wanted. “Here it is.”

  In his office at Michael’s House, Michael didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried. Pleased because maybe Sam’s file would reveal something about the kid that Laurie McKenzie had apparently been hanging out with—or worried that if T.J. had a file in Sam’s office, it probably meant he’d had some brushes with the law. Maybe even a record.

  Sam opened the file and quickly scanned the first page. “Thomas Jefferson Owens the second, seventeen, five foot ten, 145 pounds, red hair, blue eyes. Birth mother dead, father’s got the same name and his stepmother’s Alice. They claim they can’t handle T.J., that he dropped out of school, won’t go back, smokes pot and steals.” The sergeant flipped to page two. “He’s been arrested twice for petty larceny, put on probation due to his age.”

  “That’s it?” He could only hope. The kid’s record sounded a lot like his own had. Most runaways ran into some trouble with the law.

  “Until last spring. Got busted for possession. Cocaine. Ordered into a rehab center. Walked away after two days.”

  “Damn,” Michael muttered. A kid with a habit was bad news.

  Sam shifted the toothpick he was chewing to the other side of his mouth as he read on. “He’s a slippery one. He roams up and down the coast and you know the code. His friends won’t rat on him—and he seems to have plenty of friends.”

  Terrific. Just the sort of clean-cut boy Fallon would want her sister traveling around with. “Thanks, Sam. Is there a warrant out on him?”

  “Not really. But if he’s picked up for something, even a traffic violation; he’d be brought in. His father paid for his rehab treatment in that new center downtown. Costs around seven grand for thirty days. You can imagine, the old man’s not happy and wants to be notified if we pick up his son.” Sam closed the file and stuck it on top of his never-ending pile. “You got a line on where T.J. is?”

  “I wish. I’m trying to track him. If your guys find him first, would you call me?”

  “Sure. I wish you luck. These kids can disappear into the woodwork if they want to. They’ve got a network the CIA could use.”

  Michael had to agree. “I’ll be in touch.” He hung up and swiveled his chair around to look at Fallon. She wasn’t going to like the news. He told her anyhow, because she had a right to know.

  “Cocaine? Oh, no.” Fallon felt impotent anger rise to the surface. Had she been naive in thinking that her sister would live on the street with all manner of runaways and not get involved with them, with drugs, possibly even sex? Yes, probably she had. She felt like crying for Laurie’s lost innocence.

  “That doesn’t mean that Laurie’s using. Let’s try to stay optimistic.”

  Fallon rose to walk to the window and stared out unseeingly, her thoughts in a jumble. They’d driven back to San Diego only to find that Rollie had his answering machine on and wouldn’t be available till tomorrow. It was nearly ten and she should be tired, but she was too revved up to sleep. “I don’t feel too optimistic.”

  Michael got up and went to her, sliding his hands along her folded arms, burying his nose in her hair. “We’re closer than we’ve been. That’s something.”

  She was in no mood to be cajoled. “I don’t know why this Rollie person couldn’t have told Opal more, like, did Laurie and T.J. meet someone at his bar or were they alone, how long did they stay, where were they headed, did they seem all right. That kind of thing.”

  “That’s expecting a lot of a bartender, don’t you think?”

  Fallon knew he was right. She refocused her anger, turning it onto Laurie. “Just wait until I get a hold of that girl. Does she have even a small idea of what she’s put us all through? I’m going to drag her back to Denver if I have to take her kicking and screaming. And I’m going to enroll her in a convent school where a group of strong nuns with baseball bats and sturdy locked doors watch over her every move until she’s at least thirty.”

  He knew he shouldn’t smile, for her anger was real, but he couldn’t help it. “Sounds good. I know she’ll go for it.”

  “I don’t give a damn whether or not she does. She needs to have a few things pointed out to her. She has to realize that she can’t keep worrying people who love her with her immature behavior.”

  Michael decided enough was enough. Gently, he turned her around to face him. “Fallon, I know you’re hurt and worried. But getting angry at Laurie isn’t going to fix the situation. She doesn’t need someone to lock her up or to point out the error of her ways just now. I know. I’ve been where she is.”

  She was listening, but he wondered if she was hearing. “If I’d had someone who cared about me and who’d come after me, I’d have listened like a good boy to their scolding, and then I’d have run away all over again. You’ve got to realize that the running away isn’t the problem. It’s the symptom. You have to discover what made Laurie leave, what problem prompted her to walk away from everyone and everything familiar. Then, and only then, can you begin to help her.”

  Fallon let out an exasperated sigh. “Michael, I know you mean well. And I’m sure you’ve helped a great many runaways. But my sister isn’t like T.J. with his cocaine addiction, or Wendy dealing with both a rape and the loss of her baby, or lost souls like Alex and Sherlock. She comes from a good, solid home in the suburbs—not wealthy but comfortably middle-class. A little strict maybe, but tolerable. She has no addictions, no police record, no boyfriends, even.”

  “That you know of,” he said quietly.

  Her green eyes blazed back at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Fallon, listen to yourself. Do you think that Laurie’s lived on the streets with all these people and remained totally untouched?”

  Hadn’t she just berated herself for her own naiveté? Yet, coming from him, it sounded worse. “You did.”

  “To some degree. I didn’t do drugs because I saw what people with fried brains became. But I stole, I smoked, I drank, I experimented with sex. I was a wild kid for over four years. That sort of thing leaves marks on you. I got lucky. Jonathan got help for me. I didn’t mention this earlier, but I was in counseling for another four years, trying to deal with the death of my parents, which I’d never addressed, and the anger I felt for the hand I’d been dealt. You don’t get over that in a day or two, nor will a couple of well-meaning conversations bring you around. On the street, you’re filled with pain and anger and fear. That’s why so many turn to alcohol or drugs—to escape.”

  Fallon forced herself to relax, to try to understand what he was saying, if not to totally agree with his opinion. “I know it isn’t going to be easy for her. Or me. But I still return to the same thought, and that is that you didn’t have a parent left who loved you or a sister who took a hiatus from her life to find you so she could help you. Laurie will be all right if I can just get her back home, away from the street people and the life she’s in now. I know it.”

  A brick wall. He was talking to a brick wall. There was no point in continuing. Michael was certain he was right. He’d spent half his life learning his hard lessons. Fallon would have to learn, but apparently not from him. “All right, let’s not argue about this.” He turned her around again and placed his hands on her shoulders, hoping to massage away
the tension. “Let’s concentrate on finding her. I’m sure when that happens, you’ll know what to do.” At least, he hoped so; for both Laurie’s sake and Fallon’s, he thought as he dug his fingers into her taut muscles.

  A knock on the open door had them both turning. Daryl stood in the doorway, looking nervous and hesitant.

  “Come in, Daryl.” Michael walked toward the boy. “How are things going?”

  Daryl glanced at Fallon, then back to Michael, obviously reluctant to talk in front of her.

  She smiled at the thin boy who was still wearing the very white, still-like-new running shoes Michael had paid for. “I think I’ll go up to my room. See you both later.” Fallon grabbed her purse and walked out into the hallway. She’d taken only two steps when the large shoulder bag slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor, spilling its contents. Annoyed, Fallon bent to pick up her things.

  “I’ve been having bad nightmares,” she heard Daryl say from behind the office door she’d left ajar.

  “What kind of nightmares?” Michael’s low voice asked.

  “You know, about the beatings, my folks passed out on the floor, the awful smells. I wake up sweating. It hurts to remember.”

  “A lot of things hurt, Daryl. You have to face your fears and pretty soon, they get easier, then finally go away.”

  “I try, but it’s hard. I don’t know if things will ever be different. I don’t think so.”

  Finished gathering her things, Fallon straightened, but didn’t leave. She felt embarrassed eavesdropping, yet she badly wanted to know what Michael would say to this poor sad young boy.

  “Yes, they will. You have to believe that, Daryl, because only you can make them better.”

  “Don’t!” Daryl said, his voice suddenly stronger, louder.

  “Don’t what?” Michael asked, sounding honestly baffled.

  “Don’t make me want things I can’t have.” The boy’s voice was once more timid. “When I was nine or ten, I figured out there’s a whole lot I can’t have. So I made myself stop wanting them. Now, you make me think I can.” His voice cracked, quivered. “Michael, I’m scared.”

  “I know. It’s all right to be scared, Daryl. We all get scared sometime.”

  “Even you?”

  “Oh, yeah. But there’s an old saying I really like. ‘What the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.’ You can do it, Daryl. You can be anything you choose. Just believe it and go for it.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. Focus on that and I guarantee you, your nightmares will disappear.” His voice lowered, as if he was leaning closer to the boy. “I know, because it happened to me, just like it’s happening to you now. I concentrated on what I wanted. I actually pictured it every night before I went to sleep. Pretty soon, I began to believe it would happen. And in time, with lots of hard work, it did.” Michael cleared his throat. “Tell me, are you reading the books I gave you? School starts next week, you know.”

  “Yeah, but I’m worried about that, too.” He paused, as if reluctant to reveal even more weaknesses. “I’m small for my age and I’m already a grade behind in school. The kids, some even from here, make fun of me. My voice cracks. Girls won’t even look at me. I. . . I hate it.”

  Michael’s voice was deep, reassuring. “Daryl, the true measure of a man isn’t how deep his voice is or how many girls notice him. It’s how he sees himself and how he views the world. Picture yourself as strong, smart, good. And that’s how others will see you, too. Those kids who make fun of you now, those blowhards, they’re scared deep down inside, too. They’re whistling in the dark, afraid to face their fears. You can be better than that. You can walk tall and be proud. Think you can do that?”

  “Do you think I can do all that?”

  “You bet I do.”

  Walking quietly away, Fallon left the hall and went into the rec room where the television set was on low. Her mind was still on the conversation she’d overheard. She didn’t always agree with Michael, but she had to admit he had a knack for talking with these kids, for inspiring them.

  She heard a sound behind her and turned to find a young girl in her early teens huddled in a corner of the couch along the sidewall. She was crying softly into a soggy tissue. Fallon walked over. “Are you all right?”

  The girl looked up and gave her a teary smile. “Oh, sure. I just watched this really sad movie. It’s called Ghost. Did you ever see it?”

  “Yes, a while ago.”

  The girl sat up taller and dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t really believe in ghosts, but it’s such a beautiful love story. He dies but he won’t let them take him to heaven until he makes sure the woman he loves is all right. And she can feel him in the room with her, even though he’s a ghost. Isn’t that something?”

  Fallon couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, that’s something.” On closer examination, she guessed the girl to be about fourteen, younger than Laurie. She was considerably heavier, though, and her black hair was worn in a long braid that hung down her back. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Roxie. Who are you?”

  “Fallon, a friend of Michael’s. Do you live here, Roxie?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been here the longest. Nearly two years, since I was twelve.”

  Curiosity had Fallon sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. “Do you go to school?”

  “Oh, sure. Michael makes all of us go to school. I’ll be a freshman in high school, starting next week.”

  Fallon hesitated, but decided to plunge in. “Where are you from? Where’s your family?”

  Roxie’s expression didn’t change. “From Manzanita, the Indian reservation near the border. I don’t see my family. My dad was injured and can’t work anymore. My mom can’t afford to buy me clothes or send me to school, so I ran away. My brothers and sisters stayed, but there’s no future without school. Lucky for me I met Michael in the park one day. He says education’s really important.”

  “I agree. Are your grades good?”

  “All A’s except math. I’ve got to take algebra this year.” She wrinkled up her nose.

  Fallon just had to ask. “Do you miss your home, your family?”

  Roxie waved her hand at the room. “Not anymore. This is my home and the kids here are my family. And Opal and Sukey and Michael.”

  Fallon didn’t know what to say to that, so she rose. “I’ll leave you to your television watching.”

  “I’d like to see Ghost again. Do you ever wish when you watch a movie that you could change the ending? I wish the man hadn’t died. She loved him so much.” Looking very young and innocent, Roxie looked up at Fallon. “Do you believe you can have a love so strong that you can feel that person’s presence even if they’re not with you?”

  Did she? “I’m not sure that I do. But it’s a lovely thought. See you later, Roxie.” Feeling pensive, Fallon climbed the stairs to her room.

  The Rodeo Bar, as Fallon had imagined, had a Western motif and was frequented by cowboys, both real and pseudo. The plank floor was covered with sawdust, the split-pine bar ran the entire width of the large main room and the music was loud enough to turn normal conversation into a shouting match.

  At nine on Monday night, Rollie came out from behind the bar carrying three steins of beer, leaving his two assistants in charge as he joined Michael and Fallon at one of the tables toward the back. Thankfully, the enthusiastic band had just finished a set and gone outside to take a break.

  Rollie offered a beefy hand to Michael and nodded to acknowledge his introduction to Fallon. He was a barrel-chested man with tattoos along both arms, a black handlebar mustache and not a hair on his shiny head. He waited until they’d taken the first swallow of the ice-cold beer before speaking.

  “Like I told Opal, the two kids you described on my machine were in on Saturday night.” He jerked his head in the direction of the next table under the side window. “Sat right over there.” He wiped foam from his mustache. “That damn T.J. knows I g
ot his number, but he keeps on trying.”

  “What do you mean?” Michael asked.

  “He’s underage, yet he orders a beer every time. I just laugh and hand him a root beer. He gets real red in the face. The kid’s got a temper.”

  That wasn’t what Fallon wanted to hear. She removed a folded flyer from her shoulder bag and placed it in front of Rollie. “Is this the girl who was with T.J.?”

  The light wasn’t all that bright. Rollie squinted as he studied the photo. “Yeah, that’s her. Skinny little thing. Had on jeans and a big, floppy shirt. Her hair was tied up with a piece of yam. She sure as hell wasn’t even old enough to be in a bar.”

  “She’s my sister and she’s only sixteen,” Fallon told him.

  “I knew she was young. T.J. acted real self-important, like he usually does, but the guy who was waiting for them wanted to talk to your sister, not him.” Rollie took a long swig of beer and propped one bent leg over the other as he regarded them both.

  Michael felt Fallon tense and put his hand on hers. “What did the man look like?”

  “A big guy with a dark beard, maybe forty-five. Losing his hair on top so he grows it on his face.” Rollie ran a hand over his own bald pate and laughed. “Like me. Anyhow, he gave me his card, but I don’t know what I did with it. He’d been in here before, asking about the girl and T.J. I told him he’d just have to hang around and wait till they came in, ’cause I don’t keep track of nobody.”

  “Would you remember his name if you heard it?” Fallon asked.

  Rollie shrugged. “Probably. I’m pretty good with names.”

  “Does Raymond Tompkins sound right?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. A P.I. from Colorado. Wore boots and a bolo tie with his shirt, brand-new jeans. A restless dude. Kept going to the phone and making calls.”

  “Saturday night, when he met with T.J. and Laurie, did you happen to hear anything that was said or did you notice anything that might help us find the two kids?”