To Inherit a Murderer
BOOK I: The Ward
E. J. Ruek
© 2009 D. L. Keur
Sandpoint, ID 83864 USA
www.TheDeepening.com
TO INHERIT A MURDERER, BOOK I: THE WARD. Copyright © 2008 by D. L. Keur. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address D. L. Keur, P. O. Box 2419, Sandpoint, ID 83864 U.S.A.
To Inherit a Murderer, Book I, The Ward is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
E-BOOK EDITION Published 2009 by Smashwords.
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/2270
FIRST PRINT EDITION, Published 2009 in trade paperback
ISBN-10 1-44-951251-8
ISBN-13 978-1-44-951251-4
Artwork copyright © 2009 D. L. Keur
Cover art & design by D. L. Keur of www.zentao.com
Lightning photography by NOAA.
Crow photograph by Walter Siegmund.
Dedication
To my mother who insisted William be given a chance,
which put me back two years in the writing.
And ever to Maraya
1966 - October 13th 2000
the horse who loved me, and I, her.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my beta readers: Patrick Tormey, Viola Keur, Laura Grabow, Max Nolan, Irma Lopez, ‘meeks715,’ the NonPareil membership, and especially to, the ladies of Critique Circle: Marva Dasef, Elizabeth Bonecher-Brenaman, and ‘Emeraldsky.’ Extra special thanks goes to Marva Dasef and Liz Brenaman for holding my hand through the publishing process.
PROLOGUE
Billy Lang
The maid left, switching out the lights one by one until Billy was all alone with the darkness. Billy liked the dark. It brought him closer.
Tonight, he heard them talking. School again. School. After Christmas. That meant people telling him what to do and where to go. Billy didn’t like being told—at all. Well, he wasn’t going back. This time he’d make sure they couldn’t send him.
He made a mark in the darkness, his mind tracing a unique symbol that was his alone. It was a symbol that, somehow, made his wishes happen. And he wished now, with all his might, squeezing shut his eyes so tight that tears leaked out the corners. No school, he thought. No school.
Inside his eyes, shards of light danced and flashed. The doctors called them phosphenes. He called them thought lightning. And they worked for him. Sometimes. Tonight, he’d make them work. No school.
In time, he slept. And he dreamed—a tunnel with stripes, stripes that went beneath him. A monster was coming toward him, its four eyes so bright they blinded him. He screamed and twisted to escape, but a jolt went through him.
. . .
He woke to darkness. Sweat beaded his forehead; it drenched his bed. He waited for somebody to come. Nobody did.
After a while, he relaxed. He was safe in bed. No monster. His mind smiled. No school, it said as he drifted off to sleep again.
Then he had another nightmare. His mother—blonde, blue-eyed, icy cold—turned into a black-haired, black-eyed witch with hands of red-hot iron and a mouth that spit white lightning. Again, he woke up screaming. Nobody came, though. They never would.
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER ONE
Last Will and Testament
He was twelve years old—fat, lazy, slothful, gluttonous… . In short, he easily represented the seven deadly sins. In spades.
She was forty-one, had never been a mother, and didn’t want to be. Yet, here he was, delivered to her sans bows or ribbons, all tied up in legalese. She was named William’s legal guardian, this the fine result of stipulations in a will after she had agreed some dozen years past to be his godmother. Had she known then the consequences of accepting what was supposed to be an honorary title with few responsibilities beyond the yearly birthday gift and Christmas present, she would have declined.
“Ms. Rheinhart?”
“Yes,” she said, jolted from her whirling thoughts as another piece of paper was passed beneath her nose.
“If you’ll sign that document?”
Deborah turned to catch her lawyer’s eye. Jim Thornton was along to see if there wasn’t some last minute, ethical way out of this. (There wasn’t.) Or if there was some nasty catch that was going to financially ruin her or could land her in jail. (None, so far.) “And?” she asked him.
“And this one says that you’ll accept the limits of the trust, that all monies generated are to be spent upon the boy—his education, medical bills, room, board, and general needs of rearing,” Jim said, reading it over. “In exchange, you’ll receive a monthly stipend of five thousand dollars to cover your time, along with a separate check for three thousand to be spent on William, receipts upon demand. If there are extra expenses, you can contact the trust and apply for monies to be released. If he goes to college, you’ll receive the monthly stipend until he has finished school. If he graduates with a degree in any useful discipline, you’ll get a bonus of ten million dollars in a lump sum payment.”
Deborah’s eyebrows shot up. “Whose provision is that?” she asked, directing her question to any of three strangers in the room, not including the woman who sat taping and typing the whole proceeding.
“The father’s,” the other side’s lawyer said—a skinny, bird-like fellow with half-glasses perched near the end of his long nose. “He felt that a monetary incentive was necessary. The mother didn’t.”
“And it’s safe for me to sign this?” Deborah asked, her eyes on Jim.
“It is,” he said grimly.
She didn’t like his tone. “Guaranteed?”
He nodded his head. “Yes.”
“I don’t like feeling bribed.”
“Consider this, Ms. Rheinhart,” said the birdman, one Jeffrey Salsburgh, Esq., emphasis on ‘Esquire.’ “What you are receiving as a monthly allowance is less than his mother, Sherry, received as hers. Considerably less. And, regardless who takes William, the ten million dollar reward would be paid…if he graduates university with a useful degree.”
“Right!” She signed.
It was another hour before they were finally done, sixty minutes of listening, asking, talking, signing, not to mention twitching with the wish that someone, anyone, would come barging through the chamber door to demand custody of the boy for themselves. The money was enough that someone should.
“Ms. Rheinhart?” The dog-eyed judge assigned to the case held her gaze again. The Honorable Mark Hampton nodded to the lawyer representing the deceased parents.
The birdman spoke: “You are aware of the father’s desire for the boy to actually live with you, not be farmed out to a school or—”
“Yes,” she said, cutting him off as she directed a pointed gaze to both him and the judge. “Sherry and Bob wanted me to raise their boy, and that’s what I’ll do.”
“Until—” Esquire began to add.
“‘Until he’s either eighteen or has finished university, depending on his choices after graduating high school,’” Deborah quoted. “I heard you all the first time.” What she didn’t tell them was that her first order of business would be to find a strong, male guard.
“You seem rather hostile, Ms. Rheinhart,” chimed in a whiny female voice.
Deborah glared over at Ann Fargo, the drab-haired social worker who was William’s official child advocate. “Fancy that!” she hissed. “You call me up yesterday, demand I drop everything on your say so, and give me no leeway whatsoever. Jim and I drive four-hundred-and-fifty miles after a hard day’s work across a desert suffering a one-hundred-and-six-degree heat wave to get here in time. So, with no sleep, you want social niceties and pleasant?”
“A child’s life is at stake here.”
“My life is also on the line.”
“He’s just lost his parents.”
“I’ve lost my best friend!”
“Deborah.” A gentle hand descended on her arm, a warning from Jim who also had dropped everything on his own busy agenda to come with her. On a moment’s notice, he’d shared the drive, and brought along his legal expertise to protect her and guide her through the final plunge down the ugly morass opened by Bob and Sherry’s sudden deaths.
“I’m not sure you’re fit to parent this child,” the social worker said bluntly.
Deborah had just about had it up to her eyebrows with this nosy, pushy, self-righteous woman. This was the first time Deborah had set eyes on Ann Fargo, and it was hard not to simply get up, cross the room, and bitch-slap the woman’s chubby, smug face. Instead, Deborah made a point of sitting up very straight and folding her hands as she grabbed firm hold of her voice and her temper before replying. “And I’m not sure,” she said, her voice icy, but soft, “that you’re qualified to make any judgment at all about me since, one, you’ve never met me until today, and, two, this entire matter is happening in the very worst of circumstances.”
“Ladies”—the judge, again, and he pointedly frowned at the social worker. “This hearing is simply the final formality. If you had objections, Ms. Fargo, you’ve had ample time.”
“I’m simply stating my opinion for the record,” Ann said, her eyes on Deborah. “…Since this is the first time I’ve actually met Ms. Rheinhart.”
“You signed the affidavits of approval,” Jim said.
The woman actually blushed, her cheeks blossoming mottled, blotchy patches. Her mouth opened as if to respond, but nothing came out. After a few moments, she shut it again.
Jim, of course, was right—like he usually was. This woman, who was responsible for making Deborah’s life a living hell for months, could have chosen not to sign off on the paperwork. And, as the judge said, her investigation had been full and thorough. ‘Exhaustive’ was the word. Since Sherry’s death, life had been nothing but a series of constant demands for documentation, depositions, references, and interviews—interviews with psychologists, law officers, and other social workers—with everyone except this woman. “Let someone else deal with the child,” Deborah had wailed to Jim in exasperation when a demand for yet another deposition had come in her door just two weeks after the last one, this one personally and officiously delivered by an officer of the law.
But there wasn’t anybody else—no one the courts considered worthy, according to Jim’s quiet inquiries. Sherry had no living relatives, and, on the husband’s side, they were all playboys, naughty girls, drug-addled, decrepit lechers, or suspected pedophiles. …Except for one rich aunt who lived abroad—a fifty-three-year-old who preferred yachts to children. Like Deborah preferred horses. “There’s no way out of this?” she had asked Jim when the notices started coming along with the new year, all manner of requests for documentation attached to them.
“You can refuse, but he’ll wind up a ward of the state, and that’s no way for a kid to grow up.”
“Like me being his mom is?”
Jim had laughed at that. “You mother foals and piglets well enough.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Well, for one thing, they aren’t mean.”
“His mother trusted you to your word when you signed the formal guardianship documents she and Bob had drawn up before the christening.”
“Right. Little did I know!”
“Little did Sherry know,” Jim said during that conversation, his face gentle, but grave. “The decision is yours, Deb. They won’t insist you take him if you don’t want him.”
“Wouldn’t they put him up for adoption? Put him in a nice two-parent family?”
“Not with the way the will and trust are worded, no. He’s to remain a Lang, his inheritance held in trust for him until the age of twenty-three. Most likely, he’ll be shifted from foster home to foster home. Adoption is out of the question.”
Jim had said it quietly, his eyes their soft, warm brown instead of working sharp. He was sitting in her great room, the fire going, his big frame draped comfortably on her couch, feet thrown up on the coffee table. A cat lay purring on his lap. “Do you want that?”
No, Deborah wouldn’t wish that on any child, not even Sherry’s boy, regardless of how spoiled and bratty he was. Of course, that conversation had taken place before they had read the boy’s file. When they found out the rest of his history, Jim hadn’t been so sure. The boy was trouble ten times over according to his police record, his latest antics bringing some real criminal activity—arson, assault, battery, theft. And what wasn’t in his records was even worse, though Deborah hadn’t mentioned that to Jim. Sherry’s private letters gave her such nightmares that she hadn’t dared to read the journals. Not yet. Maybe never. Bob Lang had been an asshole. Sherry should have never agreed to marry him, no matter how desperate she was for a dad for the kid. Bob Lang hadn’t been good for Sherry, and he definitely hadn’t been good for the boy.
Child of privilege, “Billy” grew up getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. He never had to do a chore, got lousy grades and got passed on anyway, and was outright mean to others when he wasn’t whining that someone was picking on him. He was, in fact, just like Bob Lang—violent and sneaky—and he was like him practically from birth, kicking, biting, scratching, screaming. “There’s something uniquely evil about Billy,” Sherry had told her the only time she’d come to visit. She’d brought the boy with her, and Deborah had first hand experience with just how mean Billy Lang could be.
Deborah had caught him, then only six, purposely smashing the plants in her perennial garden. When she’d asked him to stop, he’d laughed at her like someone possessed. She’d grabbed his arm, but he’d jerked it away, screaming, “No,” then stomped even harder, kicking at her when she grabbed again.
Not to be defeated, she had picked him up. That surprised him. He wasn’t a lightweight even then, and few tried it. But Deborah was strong from bucking bales and handling livestock. It took effort, but she carried him kicking and screaming into the house.
Running right back out, he saw one of her cats and started throwing dirt clods and rocks at it. Her orange tabby, Rowdy, still carried a scar from the incident. Deborah ran right after the boy as Sherry stood screaming from the doorway, begging him to stop.
When she caught the child, Deborah grabbed him up again. The boy screamed and flailed. Then, finally, when that didn’t work, he bit her until her blood was running from his mouth.
Sherry desperately tried to pry him off, screaming at him to let go, all the while babbling, “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him. I thought bringing him would solve…I’m so sorry.” The boy just bit harder, a growling squeal rising from his throat, his saliva and Deborah’s blood bubbling out from between his lips and teeth. Deborah finally dropped him between her legs, squeezing with rider-hard thighs until he couldn’t breathe. It took minutes, but finally—finally—he let go.
Near the kennels, she had unceremoniously dumped the kid into a clean, empty dog run, locking him in. He’d hit the plastic-coated wire door, prying at the latch. When he couldn’t get out, he’d screamed all the louder. Deborah didn’t care. She grabbed Sherry and headed toward the house. “He’s safe.” So was she. And her property and animals.
Sherry helped scrub and bandage Deborah’s wounded arm. “You need to get a handle on that boy. He needs discipline. Badly,” Deborah had said between clenched teeth.
“I know. But his father won’t allow it.”
“You’re his mother. You can insist. You can do this.”
“It’s not the way you think, Deb. Life is…complicated.”
Sherry had looked away then, and Deborah realized that not all was as it should be. “What’s wrong, Sherry?”
That’s when Sherry broke down sobbing, and, holding her, Deborah had listened to the rough details of a life gone crazy, of a child she hated, of a marriage made in hell—of adultery and wild parties carried on right in front of Sherry’s eyes, of drunken fits of abuse and battery. “Leave him,” she’d said to her best friend since elementary school. “You can come live with me.”
But Sherry went back to Bob Lang. Repeatedly. Finally, she walled herself away from everyone who cared about her. She survived another six years, only to wind up road kill when Bob lost control of his BMW roadster one night coming home from some rich man’s orgy, Sherry riding hostage in a car fated to be ground beneath the rear-wheel dually drivers of a semi tractor-trailer.
“Ms. Rheinhart?”
“Deb?”—Jim’s voice.
Once again, she found herself jerked from memory’s sorrows. The judge looked at her, nodded once, then pointedly looked to the court reporter. “For the record, William Gregory Lang, son of Late Governor Robert Evans Lang and his wife, Sherry Emma Rupert Lang, is legally delivered into the care and custody of Ms. Deborah Aeryne Rheinhart, his godmother, who is named by last will and testament to assume legal guardianship of this child and deemed by this court after a full and thorough home study to be mentally, physically, and financially fit and able to do so.”
Papers rustled.
“Now,” Judge Hampton said, sitting back with a sigh. “This session is adjourned.”
Everybody stood, Jim’s hand urging Deborah to her feet.
“Ms. Rheinhart? If you’ll follow me? We can go meet Billy, now,” Ann said, impatience written in the cant of her body, hand on hip.
Obediently, Deborah followed the social worker out the door and down a long, wood-paneled hallway. Jim trailed her, the other lawyer and the judge bringing up the rear. Jim’s suit rustled; the judge’s robes brushed a plant they passed. These small noises were magnified as Deborah fought a rising hopeless feeling that she was heading down some tunnel toward disaster.
Around a corner, they came out into a windowed children’s play area where some youngsters sat around a television that played an animated story. A young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty years old and very pregnant, sat with them. Ann stopped, looked around, then walked over to the day care worker. They spoke for a moment, then Ann came back. “Billy’s gone to the bathroom. He should be back in a moment.”
“By himself?” Jim asked, an edge to his quiet voice.
“Of course not. Lisa went with him.”
“A woman? Under the circumstances—”
“He’s been happy here with us for several months, now. He’s twelve and doesn’t need someone making sure he wipes and flushes. We’re his friends. He trusts us. He likes us.”
It was said like an accusation.
“I think I’ll go visit the men’s room,” the judge said after a long moment. He shouldered past them.
Deborah watched him go, her mind finding distraction in the way his robes moved softly in the light, the gathers shifting in and out, his shoes flicking to just visible beneath the moving hem with each step. He disappeared around a farther corner. Long moments later, he reappeared, another nineteen or twenty-something girl with him. Both of them looked grim.
Ann stepped toward them, and the three gathered for a whispered conference. Without another word, Ann walked off down a connecting hall. Deborah heard a door close.
The judge looked over, his eyes on Deborah. He took a noticeable breath before speaking. “William Lang is missing.”
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER TWO
Run Away Home
They waited three days for a phone call, three days spent mostly sitting in Deborah’s hotel room, Jim talking on his cell phone to his partners. Deborah read a book—the latest discoveries unearthed on the newly revealed continent of Antarctica, where muck and mud were swiftly replacing ice and permafrost. They visited the zoo, two museums, various historical sites, and art galleries. They ate restaurant food that tasted bad, though the prices were the best in town. In the end, they gathered their belongings and headed home. William Lang was officially branded a runaway or, at worst, kidnapped—lost, strayed, or stolen.
Deborah hadn’t even been home two days before the message appeared on her machine. It was Ann. They had found William. Could Deborah come and gather him, please?
Reluctantly, Deborah called Jim, then drove her truck to town.
Jim was waiting for her in his driveway. “Another all night drive. I borrowed a special car,” he said.
“I hope it’s fuel efficient,” she replied.
“It’s not, but it has a prisoner cage,” he said, grinning. “Thought we might need that.”
“Their timing is impeccable,” she said, referring to Ann and the authorities in Olympia. “I had a buyer coming in.” She settled into the passenger seat of the modified luxury car, placing her travel bag beside her feet. “Whose car?”
“A friend’s,” Jim said. “Bounty hunter,” he added by way of explanation. “I explained our situation, and he’s happy to help. I also got you one of these from Sheriff Woolsey.”
Jim placed a package on the seat between them. It was a padded band of heavy polyethylene with a noticeable square lump.
“What is it?”
“It’s one of those criminal leg bands they use to keep track of prisoners out on work release. Here’s the other end.”
He handed over what appeared to be a cell phone with a special set of buttons and a large display window.
“We’re going to help you with this, Deb.” He looked over at her, his face calm but serious. “He’s going to be a handful, but we’ve got all sorts of options.”
She smiled then, or tried to, and almost cried.
“We have to stop for gas,” he said, starting up the Ford.
. . .
William Lang stood sullen, his eyes averted. He had bruises on his face and arms. He’d gotten into a fight with some local kids, the social worker explained. The boy’s head was shaved, and he had stitches in his scalp. The wound was puckered and angry-looking. Ann’s hands rested on the boy’s shoulders as, much more subdued than the last time they’d met, she explained what had transpired. Ominously, a police officer stood by.
Deborah signed more papers, then both the social worker and the policeman escorted William to Jim’s borrowed car. The boy carried one small suitcase. He was shorter than Deborah had expected—much—only coming up to just above her chin, and she was short at five-foot-five. His face was square, heavily fleshed with a padding of fat, his body equally flabby with rolls around his middle. He had no muscle to speak of, and his blue eyes were small and squinty—almost priggish-looking, yet angry—spoiled. His eyebrows were light brown, and she remembered him having blond, curly hair, though, with the buzz job, you couldn’t tell, now.
“He’s had breakfast. The rest of his belongings will be shipped,” Ann said, opening the back door for the boy as Jim hit a button that put the cage up between the front seats and the back. “Fasten your seat belt, Billy.”
The boy said nothing, but he did as told. The door shut, automatically locking. Ann waved as Jim put the car in motion.
An hour down the road, they pulled into a gas station, and the boy asked to get out.
Uncomfortable with the idea, Deborah said, “No.”
“I have to piss.”
Deborah cringed at the idea of that term coming out of a twelve-year-old’s mouth. If he was this bad now, what would he be like at fifteen? “You’ll just try running away again,” she said, turning. “I don’t think so.”
He made a face. “I won’t.”
Jim gave Deborah a sideways look. “You pump the gas,” he said, grabbing the leg band. “I’ll go with him.” To the boy, “Hop out and put this on.”
“What are you?! A god-damned cop?”
“A lawyer.”
“I’ve got rights.”
“You are officially branded a ‘runner.’ That gives us rights, Mr. Know-It-All.”
The kid groaned.
“Put it on. It’s either that, or you don’t go.”
Deborah was getting the receipt from the machine as both of them came out of the convenience store, Jim carrying two single scoop ice cream cones, the boy eating a double. Jim handed her a chocolate. He was grinning like a naughty child as they all climbed in, the boy buckling up without urging as the doors locked shut.
Two more stops, one for solid food, and they finally saw the off-ramp to Cedar Falls. “One hour north, and we’re home,” said Jim.
The boy said nothing, just sat playing whatever game he had going on an irritating little handheld that burped and beeped until Jim asked him to turn the sound off. Deborah hadn’t spoken the entire drive either, not when she’d driven, and not when Jim took the wheel. When she wasn’t driving, she slept, exhausted by the ordeal. Now, nearing home, she began feeling human again.
“I’ve got court in the morning,” Jim said.
“I’ve got a show three weekends after next, then a big one coming up Memorial Day and a lot to do to get them primed,” she responded.
“Oh? Where are the shows?”
“The first is in Spokane.” Then she grimaced. “The other is in Seattle.”
“Oh, God.”
“Yes. Lovely prospect, this drive all over again.”
“How many are you taking over to Seattle?”
“Just two. If I go.”
There was a rustling in the back seat. Deborah glanced around to see that the boy had his eyes up, watching.
“I’ll come along, if you’d like,” Jim offered, knowing just what Deborah was fretting—how to handle horses and a runaway all at once at a national show.
“You want to ride?” she asked, grateful.
“I could.”
“Okay. I’ll take three, then.”
“The black?”
Deborah laughed, her discomfort temporarily broken by normalcy. “Why don’t you just buy her?”
“Because I don’t have to. I get to ride her any time I like and don’t have the drain on my bank account.”
“What if I sell her?”
“You won’t. You know she’s mine.”
“Brat.”
Jim grinned over at her. “You bet.”
“Ride what?” the boy asked.
“Horses,” Jim answered with a glance into the rearview.
Deborah turned her head just slightly. “I own a stable.”
Jim laughed. “Ah, not quite the full story,” he said with a shake of his head, his eyes merry as they again looked at the boy via the rearview. “Besides a gorgeous house and the barns, she has two cliffs, several mountains, a valley, plus a menagerie to populate it all. Keeps the bears confused.”
“Bears?”
“And mountain lions,” he said with a chuckle. “Among other things.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?!” The kid practically shouted it.
Deborah turned so she could look him in the face. He sneered, then flipped her the finger. Without a word, she turned back to face front again.
“I said, where the hell are you taking me?!” he screamed.
Jim hit a switch that raised a reinforced Plexiglas shield over the wire covering the air space between the front seats and the back. “No sense listening to that the rest of the way,” he said.
The boy began beating on the cage, and then the seats.
“He’ll ruin the car,” she said.
Jim glanced back. “Sure enough.”
Deborah looked around in time to see the boy using a fancy-looking pen like a knife, stabbing and ripping the upholstery. Jim had already stopped the car and was getting out when the boy stuck his tongue out at her, wagging it. He had a very long tongue.
The door locks popped, and Jim jerked the back door open. “Get out.”
“No.”
“I said get out.”
The boy did as told. Deborah was amazed he was even that obedient. His face showed that shutdown sullenness again.
“Turn around and put your hands on the car.”
“No.”
The door banged shut, making Deborah jump, and she saw Jim do a quick trick, slapping the bracelet of a handcuff on the boy’s wrist, locking home the other one, then leveraging him around. Deborah smiled a bit at the startled look on the boy’s face as he was turned and put against the car, his arms trussed behind his back. The boy had no idea that Jim was capable of handling him—that, physically, both of them were. Mentally and emotionally, though, Deborah wasn’t so sure she was up to the task. Not like Jim.
Jim was talking to him, his face friendly, but his tone stern. Deborah couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but she could see the boy stiffening as he plastered his back harder and harder against the car as Jim spoke cold turkey to him. Good, Deborah thought. Maybe you will get a clue. The cuffs had been a surprise to her, though. She hadn’t known Jim carried them, though she knew he’d been a cop before practicing criminal law. Later, he’d gone back to study civil, then contract law, which is what he preferred now, though he was usually tapped for difficult civil cases.
The door opened, and the boy got back in, butt first. He glared at her, and, through the Plexiglas shield, she heard him say, “Are you gonna let him do this to me?”
She smiled and nodded.
Jim closed the door, and walked back around to climb in the front. He slipped the pen inside his shirt pocket. “It’s mine,” he said.
“How did he get that?”
“He must have lifted it when we got ice cream. Count him a pretty good pick-pocket as well as everything else, Deborah.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Great.”
“I’m going to suggest a pal of mine as chaperone,” Jim said. “He’s not cheap, but he and a partner will do it twenty-four-seven until this kid’s under control. Both of them are bonded and licensed, approved by the courts. There shouldn’t be any legal ramifications.”
Deborah nodded. She didn’t have the energy to deal calmly with a hostile, violent kid. She didn’t have the time. “How much?”
“Probably eight or nine grand a month,” Jim said. “The stipend and support won’t quite cover it, and they will expect room and board, too.”
“Nine thousand dollars,” Deborah muttered, then sighed. “Okay.”
He grinned. “Good.” He hit a number on his cell phone, and, moments later, a gentle sounding voice came through the speaker. “Want that job I mentioned, Bryce?” Jim asked.
Deborah listened for moment, then tuned them out. She was thinking of words on a hastily scribbled note she had received with the delivery last week of Sherry’s private journals and box of un-mailed letters: “We thought you should have these. Please give our Billy a fair chance.” The note had not been signed, but Deborah suspected it had come from some of Sherry’s household staff.
A fair chance—how can you give a child like the one sitting behind her, his hands bound to keep him from destroying the car, a fair chance? She wasn’t even sure how to give herself a fair and fighting chance against him—how to adjust her lifestyle to accommodate the ruffian. What kind of stove would prevent him from using it to burn the house down? Then there was the fireplace. There could be no matches, lighters, torches—anything. The boy was a known arsonist. He’d tried to burn down his parent’s home and both his schools more than once. Magnifying glasses—the thought came to her that those were dangerous, as well. He could start a fire that way.
She groaned. It was all too much. How was she ever going to manage home, ranch, and dangerous child? Even with a chaperone, there would still be problems. The boy had out-foxed every one of his nannies, male and female. It was in his file, interviews with them, taken by the police with each escalating incident. And the kid was only twelve. What would he be like at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen?
“It’s set,” Jim said, ending the call. “Both of them will meet us at my house.”
Deborah smiled weakly.
He gave her hand a reassuring pat and said, “You’ll see. It will be all right.”
They drove on in silence, blessed shade covering them as the sun sank low enough for the thickening trees to shield them from its extreme light. They were nearing home, and, finally, Deborah began to feel a small spark of hope and joy. With it, a bit of inner strength returned. She began to feel more like herself again, as if the hardest part of her ordeal was over. That wasn’t true. The hardest part was just beginning, but she had help. She wasn’t alone.
She looked over at the man sitting next to her. “Jim?”
Pointedly, she waited until he turned his head, acknowledging her. When he did, she said, “Thanks.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome.”
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER THREE
Ward and Keepers
A Suburban was parked behind Deborah’s black-burgundy four-wheel-drive hybrid when they got to Jim’s house. Parking the car in the drive, Jim and Deborah both got out, leaving the boy in the back.
“Jim,” said a burly, thirty-something black man. He reached a hand out, and Jim shook it.
“Bryce.”
“This is Tony DeFranco,” Bryce said, introducing a dark-haired young man with shining brown eyes and a very narrow face.
“Meet Deborah,” Jim said, nodding toward her.
On cue, Deborah stepped up. She recognized them from the martial art classes she occasionally helped teach.
Both men’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re the dragon sash that’s in the sifu’s private circle,” the man called Tony said, his voice soft.
She felt her face get warm. “…Yes.”
“I’m honored,” he said, formally bowing to her. “I had no idea.”
She bowed back. From the corner of her eye, she saw that William had leaned over so he could watch them. His eyes were suspicious. He had to be uncomfortable with his hands bound. “Can you handle him without violating the child abuse laws?” she asked bluntly.
Both men grinned. “We’re both ex-cops, Ma’am,” Bryce said. “And we’re certified and licensed in five states to do this sort of work.”
“And what will this cost me?”
They looked at one another. “How long is the job?”
“Until he’s grown, gone, and completely out of my life,” she said. “There will be a bonus in it for you, too, if we all make it. When and if he graduates college, we would split a reward from the trust.”
The one named Tony whistled softly. He eyed his partner. “Wow. That’s a commitment.”
Bryce grinned. “It’s a guaranteed paycheck,” he said with a wink.
“He’s a known arsonist,” Deborah said. “He’s a thief. He’s a biter.” She held out her arm and pushed up her white cotton sleeve, the scar there shiny. “He was six when he did this to me.”
“Usual spoiled rich kid, I’m guessing?”
“Yes. And he lost his parents a few months ago, not that he much cared for them, anyway. He stabbed his father two years ago. With a letter-opener. Put him in the hospital.”
Bryce glanced toward the car. “A real winner,” he said softly.
“A very dangerous boy,” Deborah said. “I have his file. You will probably want to read it before you take the job.”
“We’ll want to read the file, but we’ll do it. It will cost you twelve grand a month, plus room and board, though.”
“You said eight or nine on the phone,” Jim said.
“That was before we knew that we were going to be committed to this for years,” Bryce said. “A year is one thing, but six—”
“Could be six, but maybe longer,” Deborah said. “I’ve got responsibility until he’s eighteen, but he could stay until he graduates college.”
The man nodded to her. “…But if something happens that we can’t finish the contract, we’ll find solid replacements. And, of course, you can fire us at any time.”
Deborah looked at Jim. He arched his eyebrows. “I trust them,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Let’s go write something up,” Jim said, stepping toward the house, his keys jingling.
“You go on,” Tony said. “I’ll watch the boy.”
Deborah hesitated, then followed Jim and Bryce to the house. Within half an hour, Jim had a customized contract drawn up and ratified, his secretary driving over with her notary seal. When all was said and done, it wound up costing Deborah ten-thousand a month instead of the twelve originally quoted. The balance was that she agreed to work with the men, teaching them some of the inside secrets she was learning from her sifu.
“Do you have a lock down?” Bryce asked. He was flipping through the file. He looked up. “Or can we build one?”
“I have dog kennels.”
“I’m not sure that will work. Legally, I mean.”
“Well, I’m willing to build whatever we need.”
He nodded. “Good. We’re going to need it. This boy is way out of control. Have you read this, Jim?”
“Yes. That’s why I called you about this a couple of months ago.”
Deborah looked over at him. “You did?”
Nodding, he said, “Yes. I want you free and alive, not dead or behind bars for murder, Deb,” he said, half-serious, half-jesting.
She didn’t find it amusing. “He’s really that bad, isn’t he?” she said, a teary feeling rising as Sherry came to mind. And, suddenly, she wondered what kind of damage the boy had inflicted on his own mother. How many of the bruises she’d seen on Sherry the few times she’d visited her were from the husband, and how many from the boy? She’d never know. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Outside again, they found Tony sitting in the car, talking with the boy. William Lang was saying nothing, but that didn’t deter Tony. He chatted on as if the boy cared, which it was obvious he didn’t. His face was turned away, looking at nothing out the window.
“It’s all settled, Tony,” Bryce said. “I’ll fill you in on the details, later.”
“Okay. Let’s get this show on the road, then. It’s getting dark. You got the cuff keys?”
Jim handed them over, and Deborah watched as Tony got the boy out and snapped the cuffs open. The boy rubbed his wrists, clenching and unclenching each hand into a fist as he did so. “Don’t even think about it,” Tony said, his eyes warning. “We’ve got your number.”
The boy smirked at him, but then just let his arms drop.
“In the car,” Bryce said, pointing to their Suburban.
The boy’s eyes got big, and he turned to Deborah. “I thought I was going with you!”
“You are going to live at my house,” she said. “These gentlemen will be your chaperones.”
The kid’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, great! A nigger and a wop.”
She felt like slapping him. Instead, she handed Bryce the tracking monitor, then turned her back and headed for her truck. She wondered what he labeled her. Her coloring was even darker than Tony’s—olive skin, black hair, dark brown, almost black eyes. Probably figured she was a ‘Spic.’ “Try German, Potawatomi, and Mongolian, you brat,” she muttered.
Behind her, she heard Jim say, “Get over to the Suburban, William. You’re leaving.” So the boy was balking.
“My name is Billy,” the boy screamed just as she hit ‘unlock’ on her keypad.
She paused, turned her head, and said, “No. Your name, from now on, is William. End of argument.”
“Fuck you!” he yelled, the ‘you’ strangling down to a yelp as Tony reached a nerve pinch to his elbow.
Deborah opened the truck door and climbed in. She started the diesel hybrid when the light indicator dimmed, the engine turning smoothly over. Then, truck idling, she waited as the men escorted the boy to their vehicle, one getting in back, the other into the driver’s seat. They weren’t taking any chances. That was good. When the Suburban’s headlights came on, she dropped the Dodge into gear and let the clutch out.
. . .
They say that home is where the heart is. For Deborah, home was where her spirit soared. It was her peaceful harbor, her sanctuary, and it reflected her preferences in life. As she pulled into the drive, she hit the button that opened up both sets of solid, reinforced gates, gates that didn’t just bar entry, but purposely denied nosy, prying eyes. Waiting for the Suburban’s lights to catch up, she felt her body ease. She was home. She was back where she belonged. Idling through, she slowed to a stop two lengths past the innermost gate, holding a button on her cell phone until the Suburban crossed through. Then she let go and watched the gates slide shut again. Now the world was behind her, outside, where it belonged.
Rolling up the winding drive, she touched a switch, opening the windows to breathe in the clean, evening air. The huge trees to either side—her dark sentinels—were a welcome sight, the scent of heavy pine and cedar pure heaven to her senses. In the background, there was the perpetual smell of livestock—the clean smells of home. But there was something else. Deborah smelled danger in the strong, piney scent. There was that peculiar dusty smell. She’d start watering down the woods. Tonight. The skies had been clear too long, the heat too intense, even though it was only the second week in April.
Clearing the last curve, the house came into view—her father’s house—angular and hand-built of cedar. A soft, mellow light glowed from the span of gigantic vertical windows flanking either side of where the hearth rose from the earth. The timers had come on or else Sandy had stayed late. Once over the bridge, its steel grid rumbling under her truck wheels, she turned to park inside the recessed garage. Deborah didn’t see Sandy’s motorcycle, so it was the timers. She was glad her trainer hadn’t waited for them. The dogs began to bark. She called them quiet.
The Suburban stopped on the main drive, not following through to the garage. Deborah walked over and urged them on. “Park inside. You’ll be staying in the main house.”
“Okay,” said Bryce. In back, both Tony and the boy were silent.
Waiting till they parked and got their luggage out, Deborah led up the breezeway to the seemingly lockless backdoor, tapping the key code into the touch plate on her cell phone as she walked. A small chime told her when the alarms were disabled and the locks cleared. Turning the latch, she opened the reinforced door into the mudroom, lights coming bright as she stepped into the kitchen. “Up that hall are three bedrooms and a bath you can use tonight,” she said, pointing to the left. “If you’re hungry, there’s food in the refrigerator.”
“We ate earlier,” Bryce said.
“So did we,” Deborah replied.
“I’m hungry,” William said.
“You can have orange juice and cottage cheese.”
“I want ice cream.”
“Too bad,” Deborah said, turning on him. “You ate three big desserts at the restaurant, and that’s all the sugar you get till breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Immediately, he started to whine, but Tony cut him off with a word, urging him down the hallway.
“You go get some rest,” Bryce said. “Tomorrow we need to talk about securing this place, so plan on a busy day with your checkbook.”
Deborah grimaced. She had hoped to get back to her normal schedule. “How much will this cost?” she asked.
“I don’t know. What needs to happen depends on how secure the house is,” Bryce replied. “I’ll tell you tomorrow after I take a look around.”
“What would poor people do?” she asked.
“Suffer and struggle.”
“I come from a poor family. I don’t like spending money.”
He shook his head, chuckling softly. “So do I, and I don’t like spending it much, either. We’ll keep it down as much as possible. I hope you know a low-priced contractor.”
“I know a good one,” Deborah replied, heading back out the door to turn on the irrigation pumps.
. . .
Morning woke her early, the skies not yet hinting daylight. It was half-past three on the digital. She got up, pulled on her sweats, and headed to the pump house. The well levels were holding fine, and she left the water on, taking the cross-path through the dripping trees over to the outdoor kwoon.
Working through her routine, she began to feel just a hint of her usual balance return. It was something that she hadn’t felt in days. She began to sink into the familiar calm that came with breathing center, and she was able to drop into her slow forms where time was measured by the length of breath, the longer the better. She was just finding her base when Tony walked up, and, bowing in, began to mimic her, move for move.
They worked like that for maybe fifteen minutes more before she felt her focus drift, signaling the end to productive practice. Closing, she watched Tony repeat what he had mimicked from her workout, doing the same small portion of the pattern over and over until his body began to shake with the consuming effort. He stopped, and, looking over at her, he said, “Wow. I’ve never felt it quite like that before. Is it the form? Or something else?”
“Yes,” she answered with a grin. “I’m heading to feed, then for a shower. I’ll start breakfast in an hour and a half or so. Around seven.”
“We’ll have the rascal up and ready,” he said.
“Okay.”
The dogs took ten minutes, the pigs and steers another fifteen. The horses took a full twenty-five. Then there was milking the goat and her half of the Brown Swiss while the calf bawled. The cow got done by machine, but the goat she did by hand. Last, she let the chickens and ducks loose, gathering up all but the banty hen’s clutch of eggs.
Done, she headed toward the house, dumping the cow’s milk through the separator and the goat milk through an ice-filled tube to cool it instantly. The eggs she washed and slipped into plastic cartons, marking the date in wax pen before slipping them into the walk-in cooler. Then she went to take her morning shower.
Fifteen minutes later, wet-haired and jean-clad, she was in the kitchen, scrambling eggs and frying sausage patties. It was an unfamiliar ritual for her. She didn’t eat breakfast, and usually just grabbed a snack for lunch. Room and board included, though—those were part of the package. Well, she’d do breakfast and dinner, but they would have to fend for themselves for lunch from leftovers.
The men, William in tow, came without her calling, the smell bringing them like bears to bacon. “I heard a cow. Is this a farm, too?” William asked.
“Yes,” she answered. It was just about the first civil thing he’d said.
“Anything we can do to help?” Tony asked.
“Set the table.” She pointed to one wooden cupboard, then another. “Plates are there. Use the plastic ones. Glasses and cups there. Again, use the plastic, not the breakables. Flatware is in the drawer underneath the dish drainer.”
Tony got busy as Bryce parked William at the table, seating himself right beside. Deborah slid the eggs and sausage onto plates, then set on the toast and jam. Tony grabbed the perking coffee pot, and sniffed. “Wow. Real perked coffee,” he said appreciatively. “I haven’t had that except on camp trips.”
Deborah laughed. “Sorry. It isn’t as good as camp coffee,” she said, sitting down, her eye catching William sucking down milk, then scooping huge spoonfuls of eggs until his cheeks puffed out.
“Almost,” Bryce said, taking a sip.
Deborah knew what was coming the instant before it happened, but it didn’t save her. The boy literally blew the mouthful of milk and eggs at her, spewing it and his spit all over her face and shirtfront. In that slow motion instant, she watched plops of egg splatter on the silverware, in her coffee, in the cream and sugar bowls. Luckily, she had her mouth closed.
“Oh, God! You little prick!” Tony said, jumping up. He’d spilled coffee on himself.
Bryce groaned, also rising.
Deborah picked up a napkin and wiped her face. Then, unable to sustain her outrage, she let go, standing up so quickly her chair went over as she upended the entire table and its contents onto William.
The men scrambled backwards. She ignored them. “You want to play mean and tough and nasty?” she hissed, her eyes boring into the startled blues of the fat boy who, whimpering now, was pinned by the over-ended table sitting on his legs. Dishes, flatware, and dripping coffee cups littered his lap and everywhere around him, the slop of food equally distributed on him and the floor beneath. “Well, baby cakes, you ain’t seen nothing, because, if you want mean, you just found the queen bitch from Hell!” She pointed at him. “Now you get your lily-livered fat ass down on that floor, and you start licking, because nobody—you hear me?—nobody, wastes food in this house. Not ever!”
The men just stood, mouths agape. She looked from one to the next. “You think I need protecting? Naw,” she said, purposely snarling out a drawl. “It’s him who needs protecting. From me!”
And, with that, she took her leave, only pausing long enough in the kitchen doorway to warn them: “You make sure he licks up and swallows every bit of that food, you hear?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Bryce said.
“And then he can wash the dishes, straighten up, and mop the floor clean.”
She was one step gone, headed for another shower, when she heard Tony mutter, “Holy shit!”
Holy shit is right, she thought. This was exactly what she’d been afraid of—her temper getting loose. It was why she’d chosen never to have children of her own.
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER FOUR
Ground Rules
It was nearing noon, and she was putting a four-year-old bay Holsteiner through his paces on the longe line when Jim arrived. She knew he’d come. She’d guessed that Bryce would probably call him about the incident. The black man had come asking for the telephone pass code earlier, and Deborah had given it to him.
“The colt’s doing nicely,” Jim said as she asked for the halt, then called the horse into her.
“Yes, he is. But that’s not why you’re here.”
Jim walked with her to the barn, telling her of his morning in court as she put the horse in crossties, buckled a halter around his neck, then unbridled him and loosed the cavesson. Jim took the circingle off, and spread a cooler, his hands sure.
Halter and cooling blanket on, Deborah led the horse out to the covered hot-walker, Jim waiting at the gate to the round pen. Snapping the safety lead on, she stepped back. “Turn it on,” she said, and Jim pushed the button that started the machine moving, its high, padded arms turning slowly. The horse obediently began to circle before the line tightened, and Deborah relaxed. The hot-walker had been a new experience for this horse, and he still fought it sometimes.
“Bryce called,” Jim said.
“I bet he did. You want some coffee?”
“In this heat?”
“Iced tea, then?”
“Lemonade if you have it.”
Deborah called out to Sandy, telling her about the horse on the hot-walker. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I see you’ve started irrigating,” Jim said as Deborah led the way to the house. “I had to turn the windshield wipers on.”
“It’s too dry.”
“Yeah. The fire danger says extreme on the Forest Service signs, and it’s only been two weeks since the last rain. It’s the heat.”
“Ninety-eight today, and it’s only April. They keep cutting the trees and pouring concrete. They’re making this a desert.”
“Let’s not get into it, okay?” Jim said. “It just upsets you.”
They had reached the backdoor, and Jim held it open for her. Inside, Deborah was pleased to see that the kitchen was back in order, the floor clean, and the dishes washed and put away. There were flowers in a vase on the table. That was someone’s touch, and it wasn’t William’s. She glanced out the window. Sure enough. Someone had cut her annuals in the front flower bed. She grinned and shook her head, then pulled a plate from the cupboard and inspected it.
The plate was washed, not put away dirty. She pulled the flatware drawer open. Likewise, they were washed, dried, and sparkling. She nodded to herself, grabbed a glass, inspected it, then poured some lemonade from the pitcher in the fridge, setting it in front of Jim’s usual chair. She got herself some coffee and leaned against the sink. “So what did Bryce say? Or dare I ask?”
“Just that the kid spewed milk and scrambled eggs out of his mouth at you, and that you upended this table on him.” Jim fingered the table edge. “Pretty hefty table.”
“Did he mention that I told the kid to lick up the food he’d wasted?”
Jim chuckled, “Yes. He also told me that the kid actually was going to do it after managing to get himself unpinned and the table off his legs. The men didn’t help him. They did overrule your requirement that he eat the food and lick the floor.”
Deborah groaned. “I lost it, Jim. I’ll be surprised if they don’t quit.”
“Well, I guess I should have warned them.”
“I had hoped it wouldn’t happen.”
“But it did.”
“Yeah.”
“I think it’s actually a good thing,” a soft, now familiar voice put in.
Deborah turned to see Bryce standing in the kitchen doorway.
“The kid’s been like a whipped pup all morning,” he said, grinning. “I don’t think he’s ever seen a woman blow before. It opened up his eyeballs. Suddenly, we’re his best pals.”
Jim laughed. But his eyes were worried, little lines pinching at the corners. “Surprised you, too, I bet,” he said a bit too heartily.
Bryce nodded. “It did. But not in a bad way. I’ve seen a woman mad before. You ain’t seen nothin’ till you see my mother go off.” He nodded toward Deborah. “You know,” he said, “traditionally, women were banned from war in most countries of the world for a reason. They fight no holds barred, no breaks. I think this was good for the kid. I don’t think anybody, man or woman, has ever blown a gasket at him.”
The room fell to silence, and, uncomfortable, Deborah hid her face in her coffee mug, draining it. Putting it in the sink, she grabbed her discomfort by the tail and looked at it, then turned back toward the room. “So, where is William?” she asked.
“Tony is teaching him Rummy,” Bryce said. “And we already made ourselves sandwiches. The kid was hungry. No need to make any lunch for us.”
“I hadn’t planned to. You all know where the fridge is. I have work to get done.”
He cocked a grin. “Fair enough. Question, though. Did you know that there isn’t a working TV in this entire house?”
Deborah stared, visions of men and boy pawing through her private papers and her underwear drawer vivid in her mind. “You looked?”
“Well, yeah.” Bryce began to fidget. “Wasn’t I supposed to?”
“You didn’t go in my study or my bedroom, I hope,” she said.
“Nope. Didn’t go near any private rooms or the far side of the house. I kept my snooping to the library, the living room, the dining room, and that overblown workout room and gym you’ve got downstairs. Can we use that, Tony and I?”
Deborah relaxed a bit, but made a mental note to lock her personal rooms. Always. “Of course you can use the gym,” she said. “William may also participate, but only with both of you there.”
Now, she thought. Lock your rooms, now. She pulled her key ring out. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
Returning from her errand, she found Jim and Bryce quietly talking at the kitchen table. They stopped when she walked in.
“So about this TV,” Bryce said, leaning back.
She shook her head. “There is only one working TV in this house, and it’s not hooked up.”
The black man nodded. “Okay. No TV. …For the kid, right? Tony and I can watch one if we bring one in?”
She stopped her inclination to roll eyes. America watched TV, even if she didn’t. “It’s a satellite feed. We don’t have cable this far out. And, yes, in your rooms, under earphones, you may. I don’t want to hear it, feel it, or see it. And William is not to have any access to it. At all.”
“Feel it?” Bryce asked.
Jim laughed, breaking the monopoly of conversation. “Deborah can feel them, and they turn to static when she goes near them. But,” he said, putting on a “lit” face with a big, false, toothy grin, “if she stands still in just the right place, the screen goes super clear and crisp. Super Blue HD without the expense!”
Deborah cast Jim her best scalding look, then addressed Bryce. “I hate the whine they make. …You know. That high-pitched constant squeal?”
Bryce frowned. “You can hear that?”
She nodded. “And I can feel it, a tingle on my face and arms.”
“I’ve heard of people being able to, but never met one,” he said.
“I get headaches from them, especially the high color ones.”
“Computer monitors don’t bother her, though,” Jim said, irony thick, and, again, Deborah sent him a visual scald. “We do watch movies on DVD on her big screen.” He looked over at her, and she nodded. “It’s kind of a ritual when some good new releases come out. We make real buttered popcorn, and the party starts at seven on Fridays, breaks at eleven or whenever the movies are over.”
“Are you two an item?” Bryce asked.
The question came from out of nowhere. Deborah looked at Jim, and Jim at Deborah. “No,” they said simultaneously, then both began to laugh.