He put his hand over the phone to cover the speaker. “Tell her we will take him tonight.”
She shook her head. “Marty, that’s not a good idea,” she whispered in reply. She turned back to look at Tristan, who now was watching the two of them. She had no doubt the boy was listening, intently, to everything being said. The child’s head was lying flat across Troy Blakey’s chest, but his eyes were wide open, watching her carefully, and his mouth slightly agape. His chest wasn’t moving; it looked to her as if he was holding his breath.
She rolled her eyes in defeat, and as she did, she noticed Tristan’s chest deflate as though the weight of the world was just taken off his narrow shoulders. At the same time, she realized that behind her, Marty must have been also holding his breath because she felt a puff of warm air land on the back of her neck.
Marty was looking down at her with those soft blue eyes, and she could literally feel the child’s eyes on her as well. She was afraid to look over, but she knew she was trapped. She worried this would be the moment she would live to regret.
She took a deep breath before she spoke into the phone.
“Sophie, I’ll take him tonight, but please try to make other arrangements as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, thank you, Hope, so much. You have just made my day.” The social worker cried out in delight just before she disconnected the call.
“This is not a good idea, Marty.” She told him again. “You have more than enough on your plate right now.” She knew she was wasting her breath, but she gave it all she had anyway. “Who’s going to watch him while you’re at work? We need to get him in a structured environment, into school.” Hope glanced over at the boy who hadn’t moved, his position lying next to the man in the bed. The thought occurred to her, it was a possibility Tristan may never have even attended school before. This could possibly be bigger than what Marty thought it was. This little boy was not one of the multitudes of nephews he was accustomed to. She contemplated how this child very well may be a very scared and damaged child, capable of who knows what. Although she had to admit Tristan appeared to be sweet and innocent, her experience had taught her that even the most angelic face could hide an evil mind. She briefly flashed on a memory of the towheaded Brad Madison, the sweet little boy who confessed to the brutal murder of his parents two years ago and who was still in residence at Armistace today.
Shaking her head, not in disgust but dismay, Hope walked over to Tristan and held out her hand. “Come on, Tristan; let’s get you home, into a hot bath and to bed.”
Showing some reluctance in leaving the man in the bed, the child hesitated before sliding down off the hospital bed and onto the floor. He wasn’t on his feet long before Marty noticed how exhausted the boy was by the way he wobbled as he walked, so Marty scooped him up. Tristan wrapped his arms around Marty’s neck, laid his head down on his broad shoulder, and before they reached the hospital’s parking lot, the boy was fast asleep. Watching them both carefully, Hope was conflicted. She felt a sense of warmth and pride as she observed this big muscular man be so gentle and caring; yet was overcome with uneasiness about the predicament they now found themselves in. She could hear her mother’s voice forewarning her about taking in a stray and wondered if this was the time her mother finally got it right.
Jean left a message on Marty’s cell and then called the information into dispatch.
She shook her head in disbelief. How on earth did her daughter once again become personally involved in a criminal investigation? Even if Bethany was indirectly involved and had absolutely no culpability this time, Jean found herself irritated. If it turned out the guy who stole Dylan’s motorcycle was indeed the shooter they were looking for, Bethany could be called to testify in a criminal trial as a witness. And much to her mother’s dismay, once again her teenage daughter would be catapulted into a legal storm. It occurred to her that wherever the teenage lothario, Dylan Silver, went, trouble seemed to follow. As much as she was determined to dislike the kid, she understood what it was her daughter was attracted to.
He may have seemed a little rough around the edges with his James Dean style and manner of dress, but he was a polite, well-mannered, soft spoken eighteen year old who helped take care of his two younger siblings and widowed mother, who was recently diagnosed with M.S. and now confined to a wheelchair. That made it almost impossible for Jean to come up with an adequate reason why Bethany needed to keep him at arm’s length. Jean also was aware of the fact, although her daughter was younger then the boy by more than two years, her daughter’s maturity level and intellect put her in a completely different league than Dylan’s. She took some comfort in believing the relationship would never really develop into something more serious, because Dylan would be forever racing to try and keep up with her daughter and no matter how hard he tried, he would never find himself on the same level as Bethany.
She debated with herself, questioning her own integrity and motives, for feeling that way and whether or not she was being a snob. After all, she wasn’t one to talk. Her own husband, Glenn, was a brilliant and very successful chemical engineer; and she was just a homicide detective in a small town in upstate New York.
Those thoughts made her even more nervous. Would that be an argument her daughter would use against her if she used their intellectual differences in order to try and persuade Bethany to find another Romeo?
She knew how Glenn felt and he made no secret about it, telling her to let things go and let nature take its course. He told her time and time again to keep her criticism of the kid to a minimum; and if she kept harping on it, her daughter was likely to rebel and change her status with the boy from friendship to something a lot more complicated. She knew from past experience that Glenn was right, but it was just so hard to stop from worrying.
She wondered now if her friend and co-worker, Detective Kathy Blackwelder, was on point the other day when she mentioned that dirty word, the ‘M’ word. Was Kathy on point when she injected that Jean’s moodiness and crankiness was the result of diminishing estrogen? Was she entering the throes of menopause?
Sitting there looking at the iPad screen and her case notes, she realized her mind had drifted way off course and she wasn’t concentrating. Her mind was nowhere on the photograph in front of her, the high school photo of a young Troy Blakey, the man who was lying in the hospital with two gunshot wounds. The old black and white photograph, taken from his high school yearbook, showed a grinning teenager, wide smile, a thick mane of dark hair hanging loose just a cut above his shoulders. No sign of facial hair yet, but by no means was there a hint of a baby face. A strong jawline and his wide flashy smile did not hide what his eyes showed. There was a host of sadness in those eyes. The smile, she thought, was nothing more than a mask to cover something. Something she may never learn about if the man did not regain consciousness.
She shut off the electronic device. Cussing under her breath, she decided to spend the rest of the evening trying to forget she was a cop and decided to make an effort just to concentrate on her family. She said a silent prayer. “Please, let me get through an evening without any drama or homicidal maniacs to hunt down.”
Shane watched them all leave the room and then made his move.
He walked right past the fat cop, with the mop and bucket, as if it was routine. He even smiled at him when the moon-faced cop glanced up from the game he was playing on his cellphone.
Looking down at his brother, lying helpless in the bed, made him queasy. He wasn’t used to seeing Troy so vulnerable. Although most of the medical apparatus had been removed, there were still some weird looking things attached to the unconscious man and he knew enough to realize it was necessary to monitor his brother’s condition. He did wonder what the clothespin-like thing attached to his brother’s finger was doing and if it was important.
Keeping his back to the door so the cop couldn’t see his face, he got close to Troy, trying to access his condition, as he made a pretense to swab the floor.
“Troy, hey bro, wake up, man” He leaned in close enough that he was actually able to feel his brother’s warm breath on his cheek. “Shit, man, I need you to wake up. I need . . . .” He looked over towards the doorway nervously.
He didn’t know how much time he would be able to spend in the room before the fat cop got suspicious.
It was when he heard the other voices he realized the cop was no longer alone. There was activity outside the room and it was becoming more apparent that he didn’t have any more time. He needed to get out of there before he got caught. Frustrated, he squeezed his brother’s shoulder, taking care not to cause him any pain, made a few passes with the damp mop and then turned and walked out of the room. Keeping his face turned away from the guard who was now talking to a nurse, he mumbled a “Have a good day,” as he walked past, down the hallway on his way towards the elevator. The doors opened and he slipped in as several people exited. His thoughts were jumping around like a cricket during mating season. It was as if each thought simulated a Ping Pong ball and his brain was the paddle. He would come up with an idea and another one would replace it, not giving himself any time to formulate a plan to get Troy and Tristan out of this town. But then he remembered why they came to this part of the country in the first place. This is where the answers to all of their questions were. All the paperwork they found hidden in the old man’s file cabinet in the shed led them to this place. This is where he had to be, even if he risked the cops catching him. No matter how scared he was now, of getting caught by the cops, he needed to find out the truth.
And then he had second thoughts. Maybe they should just forget it. Maybe he should just stay out of sight until Troy was able to leave and they could get Tristan and get out of here and go back to Oregon. Go back home.
Then he got angry.
He had a flashback of that Oregon cop coming to the house and telling him and Troy how they found a body and they identified it as M’leigh and he realized that the old man had been wrong. She didn’t take off and leave them. Troy had been right all along. Troy had been adamant that M’leigh would never leave them, insisting that she would never just take off and leave her little boy behind. His big brother knew that the old man was lying and, once again, his big brother was right. M’leigh didn’t run away at all. She was murdered; and now he knew for a fact exactly who was responsible.
Troy always thought that something happened the day that M’leigh disappeared. Something bad.
They had come home from an overnight trip to pick up scrap metal in another state. When they arrived home, the old man and M’leigh were nowhere to be found. Tristan, almost three years old at the time, was alone and asleep in his crib. From the overwhelming smell, they could tell that the little boy’s diaper was full. Troy had lifted the sleeping boy out of the crib and they noticed how red and swollen the little boy’s face was, as if he had been crying nonstop. The toddler whimpered as he began to wake up, but immediately stopped when he saw Troy’s face above him.
Troy was confused. Where was M’leigh and why was the baby lying in a soaking wet bed? Still holding the child up, he immediately removed his soiled pajamas. Troy placed the little boy on the changing table he and Shane built from a large cedar tree. The table was a work of fine art Shane and Troy spent months perfecting. They had cut down the tree, planed it, and constructed it so it was safe and sturdy. The two men spent hours sanding and shellacking the table; and M’leigh fell in love with the gift and would run her hand over the finish, caressing it time and time again.
Taking a fresh diaper out of one of the drawers, Troy instructed his brother to get a wet washcloth and some clean clothes for the little boy.
He spent ten minutes cleaning off the stale feces and urine from the little boy’s bottom, and grabbed a tube of Desitin to smear over the redness and irritation that appeared under the child’s testicles and in the crack of his little behind.
While Troy was busy doing that, Shane made up a bottle of warm milk and handed it to Tristan, who grabbed it and thrust it into his mouth and sucked on it hungrily.
Moments later, the door opened and Troy was about to blast M’leigh for leaving the little boy in such a state, but it wasn’t M’leigh that walked through the door.
“Hey, you guys back?” The old man walked into the room holding two brown paper sacks of groceries, one in each of his arms. “How was the trip?” He asked nonchalantly, as he turned around and walked back into the kitchen, as if nothing was awry, placing the grocery bags on the kitchen table.
Troy handed the little boy to Shane and followed his father into the kitchen. “Where’s M’leigh? We came home and found Tristan alone, his diaper needed changing.”
“What do you mean?” The old man answered, taking items out of the bags and placing the ones that needed refrigeration into the icebox.
“She’s not here. Tristan was alone, where is she?” Troy’s voice rose in volume; his thoughts wavered between confusion and anger.
“She’s not here? She was here when I left for the store. She was watching one of those stupid shows she likes to watch. She told me to pick up some sponges.” He lifted a package out of the plastic bag and held it up for Troy to see. “Said we were low on them.”
Shane walked back into the room, the little boy’s head resting on his shoulder. Hearing the voices, Tristan raised his head slightly and started to whimper again. Within seconds they turned into soft cries. The little boy’s head jerked slightly, as if he was having spasms between the sobs. His nose started to run and Troy grabbed a cloth and wiped below the boy’s nose.
“She probably went out to get a pack of cigarettes or something.” The old man suggested. “She’s probably on her way home, unless . . . .”
Shane just stood there listening, not quite sure what to make of the whole scene. He could tell that Troy was getting anxious. He knew what was coming.
“Unless what?” Troy questioned the old man.
“Well, Troy, you know how antsy she’s been lately. How’s she’s been talking about getting out of here. How she was overwhelmed and complaining she was always tired. That she was bored living here . . . maybe—”
“Bullshit!” Not wanting to hear his father’s opinion, Troy took Tristan from Shane.
“Where’s Mommy, Tristan?” he asked the little boy, whose eyes were red and swollen.
The little boy had just started to put a few words together and one of his favorite words was ‘Mommy.’ Well, it was more like he was saying ‘mammy.’ His vocabulary was growing, and he was beginning to talk in sentences, but two or three words seemed to dominate his speech.
Mammy, milk, and Shane were the three words he said repeatedly. Once in a blue moon he would say, or try to say, ‘daddy,’ but it came out ‘dirty.’
Now the little boy just stared at him and remained quiet. The tears stopped, the movements of his head stopped. He laid his head back on Troy’s shoulder and closed his eyes and seemed to go back to sleep.
Troy and Shane spent the next few days taking turns going out and looking for M’leigh. They trolled the highways and streets and asked storekeepers if they had seen her. It seemed that she disappeared into thin air. No one had seen M’leigh, nor had any idea where she may be. The only one with any sort of theory was his father, who claimed that M’leigh was suffering from something called postpartum depression for a long time and she never wanted to be tied down with a kid. That maybe she took advantage of Troy and Shane being out of town and she ran away. “After all, she had done it before. Hadn’t she?”
Even the cops agreed with his father, who offered his take on the disappearance to any one that would listen. “The girl probably just ran away . . . . New mothers do that a lot. Don’t realize how much time and attention a kid takes . . . especially when they get to be Tristan’s age. They can be a handful.”
Shane abruptly stopped his wandering thoughts, his memories taking a backseat, when he realized he made it all the way to the employees’ exit. He dropp
ed the pail and laid the mop up in the corner.
He pushed the large metal bar, opening the steel door and stepped out into the hazy moonlit night. A flurry of moths made frantic movements around the security light, and he hurriedly walked away from the building, making his way towards the woods and back to the Harley he left hidden in the woods.
He was about to go back to the cabin when he noticed the three of them leaving the hospital. He recognized the lady doctor immediately. She was walking with some big muscular guy and he was holding a sleeping Tristan. He watched as the guy placed Tristan in the backseat of the lady’s car and looked like he was trying to secure the sleeping boy with a seat belt.
Looking down at the gas gauge on the bike, he decided to make one more run. He decided to follow them and see where they were headed. He didn’t want them to take Tristan, but he had no other options. If he could follow them without being seen, he would at least know where Tristan would be.
Tristan was still asleep when they got back home and the kid never opened his eyes as Marty and Hope made their way up the steps. Marty laid him down on the bed in the old bedroom he once shared with his identical twin brother, Tommy. The little boy barely moved when Marty slipped off his dirty canvas sneakers and socks and covered him with the patterned quilt. He started to close the window blinds but then realized the streetlight would produce enough light in the room in case the boy woke up and became disoriented. Marty stood there for a second watching the shadows the light and trees made and second guessed himself. The wind was starting to pick up and the branches were waving, making it appear as if someone was standing in the dark crevice of the large willow outside the house. Marty wasn’t sure if the kid was afraid of the dark or not and he didn’t want him to wake up in a strange house and be frightened. Sometimes those shadows could look pretty damn spooky to a small boy with a vivid imagination. Instead, he turned on the old brass lamp, which sat on his old wooden desk, and then shut the blinds, consequently shutting out those bothersome night shadows.
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