by Karen Rose
Michael sagged back against the bedroom wall, letting out the breath he’d been holding. A few minutes later, he felt the rumble of the garage door going back down.
He crept to the window and peeked out into the night. And sucked in a breath when he saw the big man running down the driveway, toward the flickering light at the road, a suitcase in his hand.
He was gone.
Michael and Joshua were alone again.
Michael’s entire body began to shake. He stumbled to the chair just as his legs gave out. He didn’t have to wonder what would have happened if the man had discovered him there. He’d have put his hands on Michael’s throat and choked him until he’d gone limp, just as he’d done to Brewer.
Oh God. Oh God. I would have been dead. And Joshua would be all alone, unprotected. He glared at the gun in his hand. He’d frozen. He should have shot the man as he’d stood next to Joshua’s bed, but he’d frozen.
I won’t freeze next time. If he comes back, I’ll be ready.
One
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, 16 March, 11.30 A.M.
Diesel Kennedy blew his whistle and gestured for the kids to join him on the sideline. ‘That’s good for today, guys. Come on over.’
He smiled at the ten kindergartners ambling off the field. They were all too cute in their shin guards and little cleats. Only two of the boys had any soccer competence at all. The others missed the ball, fell down, ran into each other, and generally looked like they were doing a Three Stooges routine. But they tried so hard and seemed to be having fun, which was the real win Diesel was looking for when he coached their team.
He’d been coaching for the past five years, determined that no child under his care would experience what he had growing up. He’d had no male role models and the one man in his young life, the one who should have protected him, had left him forever scarred. Diesel strove to teach good values to every child he coached, how to win and lose, how to work together. But he also taught them how to speak up for themselves. How to ask for help.
He knew the signs of abuse and, as a state mandatory reporter, informed Children’s Services when he suspected a child was being harmed. Over the last five years of coaching, he’d been involved in rescuing four children from abusive situations.
He wasn’t saving the whole world through coaching, but he could take comfort in knowing that four little boys were safe today who might not have been. He’d continue to save one child at a time. In the meantime, he’d continue teaching sportsmanship and teamwork – beneficial to any child.
He held up a hand for them to high-five as the team gathered around him, many having to jump up to reach his palm. At six-six, he towered over the five-year-olds, making them crane their necks to meet his gaze.
‘You guys did so well today. You made me very proud.’ Ten little faces beamed up at him. ‘Now, let’s talk about next week. We have our first game! Are we excited?’
‘Yes, Coach Diesel!’ they replied.
‘What happens if we win?’ he asked.
‘Ice cream!’ they shouted.
‘That’s right.’ He lifted his brows. ‘What happens if we lose?’
They looked at one other, then one of the boys frowned, likely searching his memory, because Diesel had delivered this spiel before and after every practice for the past two weeks. ‘Ice cream?’ he asked timidly.
Diesel gave him a grin, extending his fist for the boy to bump. He searched his own memory for the name of the boy with the dark hair and dark eyes, and the dent in his little chin . . . Right. Joshua Rowland. ‘That’s right, Joshua! Whether we win or not, we get ice cream. Winning is fun, but not the most important thing. The three most important things are what?’ He held up three fingers, waiting expectantly.
‘Have fun!’ they shouted.
He nodded. ‘That’s one. And two?’
‘Do our best!’
‘Very good. And the third?’
They looked at each other again quizzically, then back up at him for the answer.
Joshua raised his hand once more. ‘Be nice?’
The other boys repeated the answer, nodding fiercely, expressions abashed at not remembering.
Diesel hid his smile. They really were too cute. ‘Exactly. Be good sports, which means we’ll be nice. If we lose, we smile. We congratulate the winners. And then after the game, we go out for ice cream. If we win, we accept their congratulations and go out for ice cream. Either way, we get ice cream. Except . . . what one thing might keep us from getting ice cream?’
‘Being bad sports,’ they said.
‘You got it.’ He looked over his shoulder at the parents who’d gathered to pick up their children. ‘Moms and dads are here. Line up, shoulder to shoulder, and wait until I call your name. Mrs Moody will pass out your snacks. What do you say to Mrs Moody?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Moody!’ they chorused as his assistant coach got them lined up and handed out the snacks and juice boxes. Shauna Moody was a nice, motherly woman whose son had played soccer with their league all through school and was now in college and doing well. She credited the league with keeping him engaged and out of trouble, and now that he’d graduated, she wanted to give back. She showed up every week to hand out snacks and bandage boo-boos.
Diesel turned to the waiting parents with his clipboard. He made it a point to greet each adult doing pick-up before allowing them to leave with a child. Over the years, he’d coached kids stuck in the middle of custody disputes, and he always wanted to be sure he recognized the person doing the picking up. The last thing he wanted was to allow a child to be taken by the wrong person. Terrible things could happen when the wrong person had access to a child.
This Diesel knew from experience.
The parent of the ninth child on his list hesitated before smiling timidly. ‘You’re really good with them,’ she said, sounding surprised.
He steeled himself for what he thought might be coming, because he’d seen the censure and suspicion in this mother’s eyes from the first practice. ‘I do my best.’
And he did. No one had given him any kind of good attention when he was five years old. He wanted these kids to have a better role model than he’d had. Which, honestly, wasn’t too hard to achieve. Most of the adults in his life hadn’t given him very much at all.
If this mother wanted to remove her son from his team, he’d be polite. And then he’d call the first child on his waiting list, which right now was at about twenty-five names.
The parent – Mrs Jacobsen – tilted her head as she studied him. ‘I owe you an apology, Mr Kennedy. The first time we showed up with Liam for practice, I saw your tattoos and . . . well, I thought you would be . . .’
Diesel’s lips curved, because it appeared the conversation wasn’t going to go as he’d feared. ‘Mean? A thug?’
She laughed nervously. ‘Something like that. We try to teach our son not to judge a person by their appearance, but I’m afraid I did that with you. But you came highly recommended by my friends, so I allowed Liam to join the team. I’m so glad I did. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you,’ he said graciously. ‘I hope Liam enjoys himself.’ He looked down at the boy and gave him a wink. ‘He’s a neat kid.’
Liam beamed. ‘Bye, Coach Diesel.’
Diesel waved as they left, then looked down at his list with a silent sigh. One name left unchecked. One child unclaimed. He turned to find Joshua Rowland sitting on one of the folding chairs with Mrs Moody, his little face pinched as he searched the parking lot for his mother’s car.
Mrs Brewer had been late picking up her son from every practice. Diesel had needed to call her cell phone to remind her. She always gushed that she’d been so busy and was so sorry, but Diesel got the feeling that the woman was more concerned with attracting attention to herself than with caring for her son.
Joshua jumped up, eager to help. So eager to please.
Diesel’s heart hurt. The boy reminded him of himself. Children this eager to please were prime prey for predators.
They put the equipment in the bed of Diesel’s truck, and he let Joshua shove the tailgate closed, unable to keep from smiling at the way the child dusted his hands together and gave him a satisfied nod.
But the boy’s satisfaction was a facade, because he was searching the parking lot from the corner of his eye. The pinched look returned when there was still no sign of his mother.
He looked up at Diesel, tears filling his eyes. ‘What do I do? I don’t know the way home.’
Mrs Moody, who’d been silently watching them from the sideline, came over and gave the boy a hug. ‘We won’t make you go home by yourself, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘We can take you.’
Joshua glanced at her, then back up at Diesel. ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’
Diesel crouched down so that he was on Joshua’s level. ‘No need to be sorry, my man. Things happen.’
Joshua swallowed hard. ‘She’s been really sad lately. She . . .’ He bit his lip. ‘She sleeps a lot.’
Diesel’s jaw tightened. These were dicey situations. A parent suffering from depression wasn’t necessarily unfit. He needed to tread carefully here. Joshua’s mother had appeared normal when she’d dropped him off, and he didn’t seem to be neglected. His clothes were dirty now, but they’d been clean when he’d arrived. He looked to be well fed, and Diesel had never seen suspicious bruises on him.
‘Who watches you when she sleeps, Joshua?’ he asked.
Joshua brightened. ‘Michael does. He takes care of me.’
Diesel made his lips curve, even though his trouble-meter was pinging loudly. Michael was Joshua’s older brother, but the boy was only fourteen. Diesel had seen enough of these situations while investigating story leads at the Ledger, the newspaper he’d worked at for the past seven years. Too many older siblings were left to care for the younger ones. Sometimes this was necessary, like when a single parent had to work multiple jobs to keep the family fed, but Joshua Rowland’s mother wasn’t a single parent. She was married to a man named John Brewer, whom Diesel had never met. He assumed that Brewer hadn’t adopted the boys, as they had a different last name, but that could be for any number of reasons and didn’t indicate an issue in and of itself.
Brewer appeared to be financially successful. The family lived in a well-to-do part of town, where homes were huge and called ‘estates’. Mrs Brewer wore designer clothes and drove an expensive car. According to her parent info sheet, she didn’t work one job, much less multiples.
She should have had time to take care of her children, or money to hire a nanny. If she was leaving childcare to her older son, that meant something else was going on.
He forced his voice to be as gentle as he could make it, which wasn’t easy. It was normally gravelly and rough, so he made sure he was smiling benignly. ‘What does Michael do for you?’
‘Washes my clothes. Plays with me. Reads me stories at night and fixes my breakfast when I wake up. Eggs and bacon,’ Joshua added proudly. ‘Because he says I’m growing and cereal’s not good enough.’
‘He’s right,’ Diesel said. ‘I can see you growing right now.’
Joshua giggled, as Diesel had hoped he would. ‘No, you can’t.’
Diesel’s lips twitched. ‘Well, maybe not right now, but I did before. Who picks you up from school?’
‘Michael does. He walks me home.’ Joshua’s smile dimmed and he bit his lip again. ‘But Michael’s sad, too. And I can’t make him be happy.’
Diesel glanced at a sympathetic Mrs Moody before returning his attention to the forlorn little boy. ‘Why is Michael sad?’ he asked softly.
Joshua shrugged, looking down at his feet. ‘Mama yells at him a lot. Especially since Uncle John left.’
Oh, shit. Diesel’s trouble-meter started pinging again. ‘Uncle John?’
‘Her husband.’ Joshua frowned. ‘But not my daddy. My daddy’s gone. To heaven.’
‘Okay.’ Calling his stepfather ‘uncle’ also wasn’t an issue in and of itself. But all together . . . ‘And why did Uncle John leave?’
Another shrug. ‘Mama says it’s Michael’s fault. But Michael’s good.’
‘I’m sure he is, honey,’ Diesel murmured. ‘Does . . .’ He drew a breath. ‘Joshua, does your mom ever . . . hit your brother? Or you?’
The misery in Joshua’s eyes was his answer.
Fuck. Diesel’s heart sank even as his resolve grew. No one would hurt this child. No one had saved Diesel, but by God, he’d make sure no child that crossed his path would endure what he had.
His heart hurt for these kids, the neglected ones. The abused ones. He felt a physical pressure on his chest and realized he’d pushed the heel of his hand to his heart, reminding him that he’d been living on borrowed time for years. There were whole blocks of time when he nearly forgot that he carried a bullet in his chest, courtesy of an al-Qaeda insurgent. A bullet hovering too close to his heart to be removed. One day it would move, piercing his heart and ending his life.
But he was used to it now, the notion that his personal clock was running down. He was going to make the most of however many years – or days – he had left. Taking care of other people’s kids was his life’s mission.
Joshua Rowland had just become priority one.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, 16 March, 11.30 A.M.
‘Mom!’ Glancing at the clock on the wall, Michael shook his mother’s shoulder, roughly voicing her name even though she hated to hear him speak.
It hadn’t always been that way. She’d never encouraged him, but she hadn’t hated him. But that was before Brewer came into their lives. It hadn’t been perfect before the bastard, but once he’d moved in with them? That was when everything had gone to hell.
She’d been erratic before meeting the man, but not a drug user. All that changed. And in the last year it had gotten much, much worse. She’d never hit him before Brewer, either. Now . . .
She sometimes used her fists, but usually she’d hurl whatever happened to be in her hand at the time. This morning it had been a bowl. He’d been busy cooking Joshua’s breakfast and hadn’t seen her coming at him.
He touched the side of his head gingerly, grimacing at the blood on his fingers. He’d cleaned it as best he could. It would stop bleeding eventually. His head would stop pounding. Eventually.
Right now, Joshua was more important.
‘Mom.’ She should have been at the soccer field, picking up Joshua. She should have stayed there, waiting for him. But she hadn’t. She’d come home, staggering inside with that glassy-eyed look that never boded well.
She’d been high, probably popping pills while in the car. And now she was passed out, a syringe on the end table. But she was breathing, so at least she wasn’t dying. He had half a mind to contact the cops and have her sorry ass carted off to jail for heroin possession and child neglect, but for now, his main concern was Joshua.
He was supposed to be picked up by now. What if the coach left him there? What if Joshua tried to walk home? The practice field was six miles away. What if some pervert stole him? What if the big bald guy was waiting for him?
Oh God. Oh God.
Michael grabbed his phone and house keys. He stole a quick look at his mother’s car keys, then shook his head, immediately regretting the action. His head hurt and he was dizzy. He couldn’t have driven a car even if he knew how. His bicycle would have been just as dicey, but that wasn’t an option anymore.
John had sold his bike a few mon
ths back. Said he’d needed a little cash. Which would have been bad enough, but John hadn’t paid for the bike to begin with. Michael had bought it with the money he’d made mowing lawns.
But none of that was important now. He had to get to Joshua. He was going to have to run.
He was glad he was fast.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, 16 March, 12.05 P.M.
Fuck. Diesel shoved back the rage. Kept his voice calm. ‘Does your mother hit both of you?’ he pressed, and felt a small frisson of relief when Joshua shook his head.
‘Just Michael,’ he whispered. He blinked, sending tears streaking down his face. ‘She throws stuff at him. Says he ruined her life. Why is she so mean to him?’
Diesel drew another steadying breath. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, then shifted his gaze behind him when Joshua’s eyes abruptly lit up with relieved joy.
‘It’s him. Michael’s here!’ He ran for his brother, who was crossing the parking lot at a sprint. When he got to Joshua, he dropped to one knee and opened his arms, breathing hard.
Until Diesel stood up and turned to face him. Then Michael Rowland’s face drained of all color and he fell backward, landing on his ass. His arms came around Joshua and he held him so tightly that the little boy squirmed. All while Michael stared at Diesel like he’d seen a ghost. He was no longer breathing hard. Diesel wasn’t sure if the kid was breathing at all.
‘Michael, lemme go!’ Joshua pushed on Michael’s chest, trying to free himself. ‘You’re squishing my hands.’
The teenager didn’t let go, continuing to stare at Diesel. Diesel had seen that expression before. Stark terror.
But why? To his knowledge, he’d never seen Michael Rowland before. He shot Mrs Moody a quick look, seeing that she was as bewildered as he was.
Carefully, Diesel approached the brothers, his hands lifted, palms out. ‘Michael?’
‘He can’t hear you!’ Joshua panted, still trying to get free of his brother’s viselike grip. ‘He talks with his hands.’
Oh. Okay. Diesel knew a few signs. Well, more than a few, actually. He’d been studying for a year and a half. Ever since he’d first laid eyes on Dr Danika Novak, whose younger brother Greg was deaf.