Battle Scars (4 page)

“Government-run?” Bran broke in.

The officer shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. Place gives out free food and referrals to shelters and safety tips if they want to stay on the street. As long as someone’s looking out for those kids it’s all good.” He glanced over to where a crowd of waiting commuters edged out into a bus lane. “I gotta go corral the animals. Good luck.”

He paused for a second. “Name’s Bramswell. Tell Jess I helped you out, ’kay?” Without waiting for our response he headed for the mob, waving his hands in the air to get their attention.

“This place, that’s new,” Bran mused as we edged our way around another long lineup and headed down the sidewalk. “Not too many new outreach programs opening up with the government looking to cut corners. Probably privately-funded, give some of the rich folk some place to drop their tax deductions.” The sadness under his words tugged at my heart.

I didn’t say anything. Bran’s parents had accepted his decision to break off all ties, effectively orphaning him. The single bright light in the dark family cloud hovering over his head was that he’d gotten a chance to spend some time with Liam, his half-brother. The Callendars had invited him over for an evening and he’d been giddy when he got home, babbling his own version of baby talk until I tucked him into bed.

He missed his family’s money, of that I had no doubt. Having easy access to obscene amounts of money was addictive and he’d quit cold-turkey, sliding into my lifestyle of tuna casserole and reheated soup without complaint. Bran hadn’t said anything but I’d seen him glancing at the meat aisle with envy in the supermarket, checking out the steaks we couldn’t afford anymore.

Freedom always came with a price.

It wasn’t hard to find the Spot—the huge black period hanging over a small storefront gave it away. We picked our way through the masses of tourists and commuters filling the sidewalk, zigging and zagging as we approached the center.

We passed a set of fast-food restaurants, the doors swinging back and forth as customers flew in and out, getting their sodium fix for the day. I glanced at the middle-aged man sitting almost at the entrance to the restaurant, just close enough to get your attention but far enough away for management not to call the cops on him. He held up a coffee cup in one hand and a small sign with a crayon-lettered plea for help in the other.

Inside I shuddered. This was no way to live.

“Not too far from Second Chance Second Life,” Bran said, his voice tinged with sadness. The soup kitchen had stayed open despite the scandal of having one of their employees, a thug on probation, responsible for the death of Bran’s father’s mistress and the kidnapping of his half-brother. The gossip had died down as of late but it lay there like an open scab on your heel, waiting to be ripped open again at any moment if you turned the wrong way.

I dropped a handful of coins in the man’s cup. Karma and all that. He gave me a nod and a toothless smile before turning his attention to the next passersby.

“There they are.” Bran pointed just ahead of us. A cluster of ten teenagers huddled at the entrance to a huge stone building. The fat black period hung over their heads like a Sword of Damocles, swinging back and forth on thick heavy chains.

“I remember this building,” Bran said. “Used to be a storefront church. Free sermon with every sandwich. Good food, good times.” He chuckled. “As long as you didn’t mind hearing you would go to hell on an hourly basis.”

We surveyed the pack in front of the church. Lunch had been served not too long ago and cellophane wrappers blew by our feet as the kids munched on prepackaged hard cookies.

“Don’t see them here.” Bran studied the faces around us. “Damn they’re young,” he whispered.

“So were we.” An unfamiliar voice came from behind us.

I spun around to see a woman smiling at Bran who stood there with his mouth open, catching flies.

She was in her mid-twenties and tall, close to six feet with long blond hair trailing down past her waist in a ponytail. The light gray T-shirt with a giant black spot in the center hugged her form tight enough for me to see she wasn’t wearing a bra—and she should have been.

“Been a long time.” She flung her arms around him in a deep bear hug that would have squeezed the stuffing out of lesser men. Her hands rubbed up and down his back before resting on his hips, pulling him so close I wondered if Bran would be facing a paternity suit within the year.

This wasn’t a friendly glad-to-see-you-old-friend hug.

This was a bloody sexual assault.

My lips curled away from my teeth. I stepped forward and lifted one hand, ready to grab this bitch by the scruff of her neck and toss her into the street where, God willing, she’d be hit by a truck.

A movement to the side caught my eye, disrupting my homicidal thoughts.

A young woman, somewhere between eighteen and a hundred, stood nearly hidden in the shadows of a nearby doorway. She nibbled on a cheese sandwich, watching me. The fading black eye reminded me the woman wrapped around Bran, despite her good taste in men and her apparent death wish, was helping these kids survive.

I stopped still and waited.

“Angie,” Bran replied, either not seeing or ignoring my reaction. “My god, how are you?”

The tall woman laughed. “Fine, fine.” She waved a hand at the scattered kids. “Working on the other side of the fence now. And you?”

“Still writing.” He hadn’t let go of her waist.

Her hands stayed on his shoulders, fingers kneading the strong, stiff muscles.

The tea curdled in my belly.

Bran stepped back a safe distance. “Rebecca, this is Angie. Angie Degas.” He gave a soft chuckle and turned back to her. “You look exactly like you did the last time I saw you.”

“Something every woman wants to hear. Pleased to meet you.”

She hadn’t even looked at me. Her hands moved down off Bran’s shoulder with his retreat, now brushing the front of his shirt with her fingertips.

“Angie here used to be one of the group I worked with and wrote about.” There was something in Bran’s voice, something I couldn’t place. “You were gone when I came back. You all were.”

Her hands dropped to her side, releasing him. “The gang, we saw that article—it was all over the streets. The television crews came out looking for us, people wanted to talk to us and we just...” She wriggled her fingers in the air. “We just split. Broke up and went away.”

A shadow crossed Bran’s face. “You heard about DJ?”

Angie swallowed hard. “Yeah. That was crazy. They should have known better than to buy from Elvis, he never sold straight.” She shook her head. “Everyone was pissed. Shouldn’t have happened.”

“Should have stopped them.” The steel in Bran’s voice made me flinch.

Angie didn’t buckle. “You know it was impossible to stop those two once they got on a binge. They disappeared, they came back. We all did. You remember.”

“Yeah, I do.” Bran tilted his head to one side. “Where did you go?”

“Don’t ask.” A shadow crossed her features, vanishing a second later. “I might have to go there again if this deal goes south.” Angie took a step back and turned toward me. “So what brings you downtown?”

I took the initiative. “We’re looking for two kids. Hit the streets in the last day or so.”

“Yours?” Her attention went back to Bran. The single word held a bookful of questions.

“No.” He moved to stand beside me. “Pair of lovebirds ran away together. Parents want them home, you know the routine.”

“I’m familiar with that tune.” She nodded toward the thinning group of young men and women. “Romeo and Juliet. Never goes out of style. You got some pictures?”

I pulled out the two photographs.

Angie studied them for a long minute, her forehead furrowed in thought. Finally she shook her head.

“Can’t say they’re familiar. Of course we’re getting more in every day with the economy crashing and burning...” She waved toward the teenagers already wandering off as the food disappeared. “They might not have even made it here or gotten the word we exist yet. There’s other outreach programs they could have tripped into.”

“How many times a day do you distribute?” I asked.

“Only once, lunch from eleven until eleven-thirty. We do a clothing exchange from four until five and a street van cruises around with first aid supplies overnight from midnight until three. Front door stays open all day for a drop-in center for free counseling and temporary shelter from bad weather but we don’t let them hang out. They come in and go before we end up with a mob scene. Plenty of gangs looking to score new members or expand their territory. I don’t let them get a foothold.” Angie sighed. “We used to run twenty-four hours a day but across the board government grants have been cut back and we had to do the same. A month ago we started hustling for food donations from the local restaurants with the promise that the kids won’t hang out in front of them and beg off their customers.”

“Extortion,” I said.

She glared at me. “Efficient use of resources. Do you know how much food goes to waste because of silly regulations preventing it from being resold?”

“Tell me.” I suddenly realized I’d stepped closer to the tall woman, almost hitting the edge of her running shoes with my own.

Her eyes narrowed. I spotted the steel under the silk, the hardness from living on the streets simmering under the surface. This wasn’t some kid playing at being a street tough. This was a woman who, if she’d been born Felis, would be brawling her way to the top of any Pride she belonged to.

Her thin nostrils flared, drawing more oxygen in. I imagined her pulse accelerating, the blood pounding in her ears as she prepared to fight.

“Angie,” Bran interrupted, “where’s the hot spots to crash at night? Don Heights still good?”

He touched the small of my back, pinching my jacket, and tugged me back an inch, just enough to break the connection.

She turned her attention back to him with a wide smile, dropping her battle stance. “Still the best place to be. Remember how we used to sleep in the trees at night?” The hopeful lilt in her voice sent my blood pressure soaring.

“My back remembers,” he replied with a laugh. “Maybe we’ll head on over there when it gets dark and see what we can find. The Commons still good?”

She paused and chewed on her lower lip before answering. “Controlled now by the Bloor Street Boys. But it’s still safe during daylight hours if you’re looking for a place to crash.”

He pulled out one of his business cards and handed it to her. “Call us if you see either one of them. Still underage and parents want them home. You know the story.”

Angie giggled before stuffing the card into a front pocket. “You got it. Show me the pics one more time.”

I handed copies over. “Keep them. Feel free to pass them around, see if anyone’s seen them on their travels.”

She scrutinized them for a few seconds more before adding them to Bran’s card. “I’ll call if they show up here or at the overnight shelter down at the church.” One hand gestured down the street. “St. Mary’s opens a few beds every night down at Church and King. Not too many spots and it fills fast but you never know.” She smiled at Bran. “Hot summer nights are great to sleep out under the stars. Remember?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He wasn’t catching what she was pitching, intentionally or unintentionally.

Good for both of them.

Bran took my hand. “Thanks, Angie. We’ll be in touch.”

She waved as he turned away and led me down the street, maneuvering between clumps of tourists, street kids and locals trying to figure out what to make of the first two groups.

Bran’s grip was so tight I feared for my circulation. I tugged lightly and was rewarded with an even more restraining clutch.

I wasn’t breaking free without a fight.

“Here.” He pushed us toward a coffee shop.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Yes you are. Don’t think I didn’t see what was going on.” He held the door open for me, practically pushing me through.

“What?” I stuffed my hands in my pockets, ignoring my aching fingers. This wasn’t the place to throw a tantrum, no matter how tempting it was.

Bran ordered two coffees and turned back to me. “You were greener than green can get.”

“Me?”

The squeak in my voice gave me away.

The barista interrupted, sliding the two drinks onto the marble counter. I took the first cardboard cup and headed for a window table. Bran followed after snagging a handful of sugar packets and stir sticks.

He emptied one sugar into his black coffee and dumped the rest in one pocket.

“For later.”

I didn’t question his money-saving techniques. Instead I stirred my drink and stuck the hot plastic into my mouth.

It gave me a reason to grind my teeth together.

“Don’t.” This time it was more of a warning than a request. “Don’t do this, Rebecca.”

The fact that he used my full name made it worse.

I chewed on the black toothpick.

“You want to find these kids, right? Well, we’re going to have to deal with Angie at some point. It’s better than nothing.”

I chomped down on the stir stick. “She tried to mount you right in front of me.” My voice rose enough to draw the attention of the other customers. “In front of me.”

“Angie—” He licked his lips. “Angie’s a handful and a half. She crushed on me the first day I met the gang and propositioned me that night.”

The edges of the plastic stick grated against the inside of my cheek. “And?”

He glared at me. “What sort of guy do you think I am? I said no. She was barely sixteen, if that.”

I returned the glare with interest. “If I recall correctly you were supposed to be a bit of a horn dog before we met.”

Bran snorted. “There’s a difference between dating a grown woman and grabbing jailbait.” He leaned in, trying to ignore the questioning looks from the spectators. “I told her to knock it off. I’m not a crib robber and I sure as hell was never into taking advantage of any women, no matter her age.”

“She’s older now.”

His shoulders slumped. “And just as annoying. You don’t think I knew she was copping a feel? Damned girl practically had her hands down my pants.”