In Every Heartbeat

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Lorenzo answered. “Marta ain’t—she’s married. An’ Oscar, he’s gone, too. Ma don’t know where. But Wendell an’ Orel an’ Elma live here. They went on to school, though.”

  Pete figured Marta must be seventeen now. He only had vague memories of Oscar, Wendell, and Orel as runny-nosed toddlers. Elma had been just a newborn when he’d left. He tried to picture what they might look like now, but no images would form. The thought saddened him. He had siblings—seven of them—and they were all strangers to him. All because of Gunter and Berta Leidig’s hardheartedness.

  Lord, give me strength. Despite the fury stirring his middle, Pete managed to speak kindly. “I need to talk to your folks. Can you take me to your apartment?”

  Lorenzo turned and darted for the doors, but Dennis reached out and grabbed for Lorenzo’s shirt. “We have to stay outside!”

  A soft rip sounded. Lorenzo cried out, “Oh no!” He examined his shirt, and tears filled his eyes. “Look what you done, Dennis!

  Pa’s gonna be so mad—he’ll give me a whippin’!”

  “Stop sniveling,” Dennis ordered, but he bit on the corner of his lips, his eyes reflecting fear.

  Pete moved toward the younger boy. “Let me see that, Lorenzo.” Pete examined the shirt and smiled. “It’s just a tear in the seam. This can be fixed easily. Don’t worry.”

  But neither boy looked reassured. One plump tear rolled down Lorenzo’s face, leaving a clean track on his dusty cheek. “Pa’ll whip me for sure.”

  Pete glanced toward the building. He had to visit his parents today; he needed to return to Chambers tomorrow.

  But how could he leave the boys to face their father’s wrath? He felt partially responsible for the damage done to Lorenzo’s shirt. With a sigh, he curled his hand over Lorenzo’s shoulder.

  “Tell you what, partner. I know how to fix that shirt.”

  Dennis squinted one eye. “Men don’t do stitchin’.”

  Pete laughed. “Haven’t you ever seen a tailor?”

  The boys stared at him blankly. Their clothes were probably hand-me-downs from older brothers. Why would they ever have visited a tailor’s shop? He told them, “The lady I lived with taught me to stitch so I could sew on my own buttons and fix things like rips.” For the first time, he appreciated Isabelle’s insistence that he learn to wield a needle and thread. “Come with me to my hotel, and we’ll get your shirt fixed. Then I’ll come back here to visit your folks, all right?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Lorenzo slipped his grubby hand into Pete’s. Pleased more than he could understand by the child’s trust, Pete turned to Dennis. He sensed Dennis wouldn’t be so easily won. “You coming?”

  Dennis drew in his lips and stood unmoving for several seconds. Then he kicked at a stone on the ground. “Ain’t gonna let you take off with Lorenzo without makin’ sure you bring ’im back. Yeah, I’m comin’.”

  Pete held out his free hand, but Dennis ignored it and crowded on the other side of Lorenzo. With his little brothers scuffing along beside him, Pete headed for the corner to hail a cab.

  “Unless you’re that boy’s court-appointed representative or a family member, you ain’t gonna visit him.” The scowling guard folded his arms over his portly belly. His jowls quivered as he added, “Now scoot on outta here, missy, before I arrest you for bein’ a public nuisance.”

  Libby twisted her lips to the side, knowing such a charge would be dismissed without a second glance. The basement of the courthouse was hardly a public gathering spot. Besides, she’d come a long way to see Oscar Leidig, and one overweight jail guard was not going to best her. Lifting her pad of paper and pencil, she smiled sweetly over its top edge. “Very well. Your name, please?”

  The man’s forehead puckered into a series of deep furrows. “Why?”

  “I’ll need it for the article.”

  “Article?”

  “Why yes, sir.” Libby aimed the pencil tip at the paper. “I’m sure my readers will be very interested in the name of the man responsible for guarding such a vicious felon as Oscar Leidig.”

  The guard scratched his flubbery cheek. “You say you got readers?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I’m a journalist.” At least, I will be. “And I’m here to document this case. Of course, the article will be dreadfully short and no doubt relegated to the last page of the paper unless I have the opportunity to interview the prisoner, but . . .” She dangled her bait, watching to see if the man would pounce.

  The guard looked her up and down, his lips curled in skepticism. “You’re awful young to be a reporter.”

  Libby drew herself as tall as possible and pinned the man with a regal look. “I can assure you I am very qualified. As a student from the University of Southern Missouri, my publishing credits are quite expansive.” She’d stretched the truth, but how else would she convince this bulbous-nosed dunderhead to let her talk to Oscar Leidig? “So . . . your name?”

  Her heart pounded. Would vanity reign supreme or would he send her away? Please, please. I must speak to this boy. She thought her lungs might explode while she waited for the man to make up his mind.

  “It’s Holloway. Wallace Holloway.”

  Hiding her smile, Libby dutifully recorded his name. “Wallace Holloway. And you’ve been employed with the Clayton justice system for how long?”

  His chest puffed. “Seven years.” Leaning forward, he added in a whisper, “But this is the youngest murderer I ever seen come through. He’s a bad’un, I tell you. A real bad’un.”

  Libby’s mouth went dry at the man’s statement. Did she dare proceed? Yes, she must gather every fact she could.

  She assumed a friendly yet professional air. “I know my readers will be most interested in your bravery in protecting society from this dangerous criminal.” She tapped her chin with the pencil. “Of course, the article would hold much more interest if we could determine how this young man became so hardened at such an early age. Perhaps the information I uncover today might assist those who work with our youth, even provide ideas for preventing another young man from making a similar mistake.”

  Pacing back and forth in the dank concrete-block hallway, Libby hugged the pad and crunched her forehead as if deep in thought. “Just think, Mr. Holloway . . . someday, there could be a criminal-prevention program named in honor of the man who guarded Oscar Leidig. The Holloway Plan.” She scrawled the title in the air with her pencil, then swung a beaming smile at the man. “Why, you could become famous!”

  “The Holloway Plan?” The man’s eyes glazed. Then he shook his head. “But I don’t have no ideas on how to keep these young mutts from performin’ crimes.”

  “That’s where Oscar Leidig comes in.” Libby scurried to the man’s side. “He certainly knows why he was in the drugstore with a gun. He knows what led him to that point in time. He can tell me . . . er, us . . . everything we need to know.” She pointed at the guard with her pencil. “But we can’t name the prevention plan for him. It would be indecent to credit him—after all, he’s a criminal. You’re a respected lawman . . .”

  Defining a jail guard as a lawman took liberties with accuracy, but her words had found their target. The man threw back his shoulders and patted the gun at his hip. “You betcha, missy.”

  “So of course we’ll give the plan your name,” Libby finished. “Now—” she inched toward the barred cell door—“all that’s left is to ask questions of Mr. Leidig.”

  Mr. Holloway lurched into her path. “You ain’t goin’ in that cell.”

  “But, Mr. Holloway, how can I possibly—”

  “You ain’t goin’ in alone.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. “Boy like that . . . who knows what he’d do if he had you all to hisself in there. Nope. I’m goin’ in with you!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bennett roused and sat up in the lumpy hotel bed when the doorknob squeaked, signaling Pete’s return. Yawning, he greeted, “Hey, Pete, that didn’t take long. I figured—” Frowning
, he pointed at Pete’s scruffy young companions. “Who’re they?”

  Pete put his hand on the head of the smaller boy and gave the other one a gentle push into the room. “Dennis and Lorenzo. Boys, this is my friend Bennett.”

  The boys stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “What’re they doing here?”

  Pete looked at the pair, a funny smile on his lips. “They’re . . . my brothers.”

  Bennett shot off the bed as if fired from a cannon. “Brothers?” Why had Pete brought them to the hotel room? Surely he didn’t intend to keep them!

  Pete guided the smallest boy to the table and chair in the corner, sat down, and stood the boy between his knees. “Lorenzo’s shirt has a tear. We’re going to repair it.” He turned to the older boy, who was standing next to the door with a sullen look on his face.

  “Dennis, bring me the bag, please. I need the needle and thread we bought.”

  Dennis shuffled forward, dropped the little paper bag within Pete’s reach, and then returned to lean against the door. The kid looked ready to bolt at any minute. If he did, Bennett wouldn’t stop him.

  Bennett inched closer to the table. “You brought him here to fix his shirt?” Had Pete gone completely batty?

  “That’s right.” Pete nipped off a length of thread and squinted at the needle. He jabbed the thread through the eye and then tied a knot at the dangling end. “All right, Lorenzo, off with that shirt.”

  Lorenzo backed away, shaking his head wildly. “Huh-uh.”

  Pete chuckled softly. “I can’t fix it while you’re wearing it.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”

  But again, the little boy shook his head. “No.”

  Bennett rolled his eyes. “For pete’s sake . . .” The sooner that shirt was fixed, the sooner Pete would get these kids out of there. The last thing they needed was a couple of dirty-faced urchins underfoot. He reached for the kid. “Gimme your shirt so Pete can—”

  “No!” The boy raced to his brother.

  Dennis shot Bennett a murderous glare. “Leave ’im alone.”

  Bennett folded his arms and laughed. “Well, well, aren’t you the feisty one?”

  Pete clumsily rose and stepped in front of Bennett, but he didn’t advance on the boys. “Lorenzo, I don’t want to hurt you. I might poke you with the needle if you don’t take off your shirt.”

  “He ain’t takin’ it off.” Dennis’s eyes snapped, daring Pete to argue.

  Bennett had never seen such a stubborn kid. Reminded him of himself at that age.

  The boy stuck out his jaw. “It’s the only shirt he’s got. You don’t give it back, what’s he s’posed to do? Run around without?”

  “He’s running around without shoes,” Bennett muttered, “so what difference does it make?” The boy’s feet were chapped, the toenails rimmed with dirt. He’d been going shoeless for quite a while.

  “Can go to school without shoes. Can’t go without a shirt.” Dennis plunked his fists on his hips. “So you either fix it with him in it or we’re goin’ home.”

  Another wail left Lorenzo’s lips. “I can’t go home, Dennis! Pa’ll skin me for tearin’ my shirt!”

  Pete limped forward a couple of steps, keeping a distance between himself and the boys. Bennett wished he’d just grab the kid and take the shirt, but instead Pete spoke in a soft voice, the way he might talk to a spooked horse. “Lorenzo, all I want to do is fix your shirt for you. I promise I won’t keep it. What would I do with it?” He held his arms outward. “It wouldn’t fit me.”

  A grin twitched Lorenzo’s lips. “You’re too big for it.”

  Pete laughed as if the kid had said something clever. “That’s right.” He returned to the table. “So come on over here. You can watch me. Then the next time your shirt gets a tear, you’ll know how to fix it yourself.”

  “But I don’t got a needle and thread.” The boy slowly scuffed his way to Pete and began unbuttoning the ragged shirt.

  “Once I’m done, I’ll give you the needle and thread.”

  The little boy’s mouth dropped. “For real? For me to keep?”

  “To keep.” Pete took the shirt and turned it inside-out.

  “My own needle . . .”

  Bennett couldn’t hold back a snort. Pete wasn’t offering the kid anything of value, like an erector set or a pair of roller skates. Why would he get all excited over a needle and thread?

  Lorenzo rested his palms on the table and leaned close, watching Pete push the needle in and out, in and out. The boy’s ribs showed, and some strange pale marks on his back—fading welts?—captured Bennett’s attention. A chill went down his spine when the little boy said, “Nobody never gave me nothin’ before . . . not for keeps.”

  Bennett glanced at Dennis, who stared unsmilingly in Pete’s direction, seeming to guard his little brother with his eyes. Sinking onto the mattress, Bennett considered for the first time that there could be worse things than growing up without knowing who his parents were.

  An hour after entering the jail cell, Libby thanked Mr. Holloway for his time and scampered up the dimly lit staircase leading from the basement. The jail area of the rock building had been cool and damp, carrying the musty odors of mold and something that reminded her of an outhouse on a hot summer day. She burst onto the street, sucking in great drafts of fresh, crisp air to clear her nostrils of the unpleasant odors.

  Her chest ached. She could escape the dreariness of that underground cell, but Oscar couldn’t. “Oh, that poor boy . . .” The back of her nose stung as an image of Oscar Leidig’s hopeless face filled her memory. She wasn’t sure which haunted her more—Oscar’s despair or Mr. Holloway’s apathy toward the young man. While she’d carefully recorded Oscar’s version of the events leading up to the death of the drugstore clerk, the guard had sat with his hands linked on his belly, his expression stoic or—worse—bored. The man’s only concern was that she spell his name correctly.

  “No one cares.” She whispered the words to the passing pedestrians, their mindless busyness seeming to prove her thoughts correct. Well, now that she was armed with the facts, somebody was going to care! She would not let Petey’s brother die without a fight.

  She hailed a passing cab and gave the driver Alice-Marie’s address. She needed to find Petey and share her findings—but Petey didn’t have the power to set his brother free. Alice-Marie’s father, however, might. He was a respected businessman and a pillar of his church; his voice would count when raised against injustice. Libby hugged her notebook to her chest and willed the afternoon to hurry by. She’d speak to Mr. Daley when he returned home for lunch. There was no time to lose—Oscar’s hanging was scheduled to take place on December 18, only a month away.

  The cab pulled up in front of Alice-Marie’s stately home. Libby handed the cab driver a quarter and hopped out. She took the steps two at a time. Just as she reached for the brass door handle, she heard Alice-Marie’s voice.

  “Elisabet Conley, there you are running again. Will you ever learn to behave like a lady?”

  Libby spun toward the sound and located Alice-Marie sitting on a wicker chair in the porch’s attached gazebo. She hurried over and dropped into a matching chair. A half-empty teacup painted with delicate blue forget-me-nots sat on a wooden tray on a wicker table between the chairs. The vast difference between the horror of Oscar’s jail cell and Alice-Marie’s pristine world almost made Libby dizzy.

  “Did you get the information you needed to finish your article?”

  Libby felt a twinge of guilt. She’d led Alice-Marie and her parents to believe she’d left their home to gather information for a school assignment. Mrs. Daley had erroneously assumed Libby’s silence when questioned about her whereabouts resulted from embarrassment of her social faux pas. After all, what girl of breeding would leave a social event prior to bidding a polite farewell to the special guest?

  Maelle would be disappointed to know Libby had engaged in falsehoods, but allowing the Daleys to hold to their assumptions had
made it easy to continue the charade when leaving the house that morning. In answer to Alice-Marie’s question, she said, “I have the information, but there’s still much work to do.”

  “So you’ll be writing this afternoon?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  Libby took a deep breath. “Whether or not I can secure your father’s assistance.”

  Alice-Marie took a sip of tea, her eyebrows high. “How can Daddy help?”

  Instead of answering that question, Libby posed one of her own. “Will he be home soon?”

  “Around twelve-thirty, Mother said. We’ll have luncheon at one.”

  Libby groaned. She might burst if she had to wait that long!

  Alice-Marie nibbled the edge of a round, crisp cookie. She pushed the little plate holding three more cookies closer to Libby. “Have one—they’re wonderful. Lemon butter cookies, the last of the season, since Cook won’t be able to get lemons again until next spring.”

  Libby shook her head. She couldn’t eat. Not until she’d un–burdened herself. “Alice-Marie, do you read the newspaper?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What on earth for?” She took another dainty bite and brushed crumbs from her skirt.

  “To find out what’s going on in the world.” Libby leaned forward. “Did you know, right here in Clayton, a sixteen-year-old—a mere boy!—is jailed and awaiting execution for a murder he didn’t commit?”

  Alice-Marie’s mouth dropped open. “Truly? But that’s despicable!”

  Libby nodded wholeheartedly. “It is. The story I was working on when I left your house last weekend involves him.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the boy was Petey’s brother. “I’m hoping your father might be able to help me find a way to prove this boy’s innocence.”

  “Libby, dear, Daddy isn’t a lawyer.”