Children of the Knight (53 page)

Your errant knight, Mark

Jack broke down again and began to cry, and Lance reached out to enfold him. Arthur dropped into his throne in shock. He’d had no idea. Was he that blind? Had he grown so enamored of the greater cause that he’d lost the ability to see, really
see
, these children?

“Thou didst know of his feelings?” He looked at both boys. Lance shook his head, but Jack nodded weakly.

“Yeah.”

“Forsooth, Sir Jack, why didst thou not tell me?” Arthur exclaimed, his own chest tight with emotion. “Why didst Mark not come to me? I would not condemn him for feeling love.”

“He was embarrassed, Arthur.” Jack sniffled. “He knew you couldn’t love him like he wanted, and he was afraid that… you might hate him. I told ’im you wouldn’t but….”

Arthur stood resolutely, his heart burning with determination and a hint of doom he wished not to see. This could not stand. He could not lose one of those he’d been given. “I must find him.”

“You can’t, Arthur,” Lance insisted, still cradling the hopeless Jack. “You got the crusade ta run and all these other guys to watch over. The needs of the whole company, remember?”

Arthur sighed deeply, suddenly recognizing the problem with that philosophy. “Thou art right, of course, Sir Lance. But at times it doth be a difficult precept to hold fast to.”

Jack pulled his face away from Lance’s comforting shoulder and turned to the king. “I’ll go after him,” he said, releasing Lance and swiping tears away with the back of his hand. “I know the places he’d probably go. I’ll find him.”

“I’m going too,” Lance insisted, and Jack looked over at him, deep gratitude filling his poignant eyes. “If that’s all right with you, Arthur?”

Part of Lance hoped Arthur would say no, that he was much too valuable, that he was
needed
to lead.
The selfish part
, he told himself. No one is indispensable to the cause, Arthur had said before.
Even me
.

The king looked grave, his mind on his failures rather than his successes. And he said the wrong thing. “Of course, Sir Lance. Anyone can carry the banner.”

Lance flinched as though he’d been slapped
and
punched at the same time, and the blood drained from his face.
Is that what he’d been reduced to—banner carrier? After all he and Arthur had shared?

But Arthur was too distraught to notice his error. Nay, didn’t even realize he’d made one until it was far too late.

“Find him, my knights. That beeth thy quest. Find the lost one and return him to us.”

Jack nodded and turned to Lance, failing to notice the rejection pooling in those stunned green eyes, and then padded quickly out of The Hub. Bowing stiffly to Arthur, Lance forced himself to turn and haltingly follow.

T
HAT
same morning, Gibson rose early, had breakfast, dressed casual for a change—just slacks and a pullover shirt and fancy basketball shoes—and hurried nervously out of his one-bedroom apartment. He had to see Justin, and that was that. His ex-wife, Sandra, told him the boy was gone all day every day with “that pretty awesome King Arthur guy” and the only time she ever saw him was early in the morning. She didn’t even care that Justin was ditching all or part of school most days, along with hundreds of other teens, to work with Arthur on the cleanups. That had started
another
argument.

“He didn’t do anything in school last year but sell drugs,” she’d told him pointedly over the phone, “and don’t tell me you had no idea.”

Actually, he
had
had no idea, not until he’d seen Justin admit it on television that day. How had he so lost touch with his own boy? Hell, he knew some criminals better’n he knew his own kid! Rather than argue, he sighed and said, “I just want to see my son.”

“Good luck with that,” Sandra had said and hung up abruptly.

Gibson stood beside his expensive BMW parked outside his former Hancock Park, two-story house and anxiously drummed his fingers on the dark blue roof of the car. He’d thought for weeks what he would say when finally he got together with Justin. He’d practiced, promising to listen and not argue and
not
lose his temper.

The front door opened, and Justin excitedly leapt down the brickwork stairs and headed for the street.
He looks so happy
, Gibson thought
. I never saw him look happy to be up this early in his life.
The boy’s hair had grown out, and he looked good, healthy, and content. But then Justin spotted his dad, and the smile dropped, the mood darkened.

Afraid the boy would take off, Gibson said, “’Morning, Justin.”

Justin frowned and gazed at his father, who stood tensely with both hands thrust into his pockets. His father actually looked normal today, he thought, not buttoned up in those old-man suits he always wore.

Without approaching, Justin said, “I got things to do, Dad.”

“I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, son,” Gibson explained, and something in the voice surprised Justin. “Please, let’s talk a few minutes.”

Reluctantly, but curious at the change in his father’s demeanor, Justin strolled over and stood awkwardly before the older man, shuffling his feet uneasily. Both realized immediately that the son now eclipsed the father in height.

“Wow,” Gibson said with a whistle, “you’ve grown.”

Justin glanced away. “Yeah, thanks.”

Gibson eyed the boy’s attire: long-sleeved, black tunic, the standard brown leather pants and leather boots of Arthur’s army, and sighed. “Changed your look,” he said conversationally, choosing his words with care so as not to anger the boy. “I like it better than the sagging style,” and then realized when Justin glared at him that it was a dig. Why did he always do that?

“Uh, listen, son, I thought we might do something today after school,” Gibson tried again, “but your mom tells me you haven’t been going to school.”

Justin just laughed. “Good one, Dad. You already know I’m not cuz you been seeing me on TV. Mom tole me. So just cut the crap and say what’s on yer mind. I got people waitin’ on me.”

Gibson frowned, his temper rising. “You mean him, that crazy-ass
King
Arthur?”

Now Justin’s temper flared. “Yeah, I mean
King
Arthur, a man who done more for this city in five months than you done your whole life!”

That hurt. Gibson felt a knife in his back, twisting, but he fought for composure. “You know that’s unfair, Justin. You know I became a cop to help people, to help kids stay outta gangs and drugs because I saw too many of my friends go down for that. I did it for you, son, and your generation.”

Justin sneered. “And how well did that work out for ya, huh, Dad?”

Gibson glared at him and then relented. “I know about the drugs, and Dwayne. I did see that on TV.”

Justin laughed hollowly. “That when you finally figured it out? Some cop! I been sellin’ for almost a year, Dad, and hangin’ with the homies for three. Ever since you left!”

Gibson didn’t understand. “Son, if you needed money…,” he tried lamely.

Justin shook his head in frustration.
Damn this man was dense!
“No, Dad, I didn’t need the money. I needed you! But all I heard my whole life was this gang member or that gang member and how I’d better never get involved. Shit, Dad, you knew them gangsters on the street better’n you ever knew me.”

Gibson tried to interrupt, but Justin put a hand on his chest.

“Let me finish, Dad. That’s the trouble—you
never
let me finish.” He lowered his hand slowly. “When you and mom split, and you kept missing your visits cuz somethin’ came up at work—always an ‘emergency’. God, how I hated hearing those fucking words!” His young face blazed with pent-up anger.

“Finally, I figured the only way my dad would pay any attention was if I was a gang member too. Then at least you might arrest me, and I’d have five fucking minutes with you while you booked me! But no, yer such a fantastic cop you couldn’t even see the gang member in your own family.”

He laughed bitterly. “You know why Arthur’s better than you and all the cops and all the mayors and lawmakers put together? Cuz all you guys think up are ways to arrest us and lock us up for life
after
we join gangs or otherwise fuck up. Arthur’s out there giving us a reason
not
to do those things.”

Gibson stood, stunned, for once in his life not angry at being criticized, not even embarrassed if any of the neighbors might be watching. But he did feel ashamed, because he saw the truth in Justin’s words.
Every single word
. He’d wanted so badly to be Supercop that he’d dropped the ball where it counted most. His son was right, and
he
was wrong.

“I’m sorry, Justin.” It was practically a whisper. “You’re right.”

Justin looked stunned, but still smiled cynically. “I know I am.”

Gibson bristled, recognizing that thread of arrogance as his own DNA in the boy. Sandra never had that quality. He cleared his throat. “So, uh, you’re… you’re not selling anymore, right?”

Justin’s mouth dropped open in amazement. Just when he thought he’d gotten through! He sighed heavily. “No, Dad, I’m not, cuz I don’t need to. Arthur has time for me.”

“Sorry,” Gibson tried again, cursing his stupid rigid fixation on the law. “I just don’t want you doing the wrong—”

But Justin had had enough and cut him off with a raised hand. “And another thing about Arthur, Dad, not only does he
want
to hang out with me, but he sees the good in me too. He doesn’t always suspect I’m doing something wrong. Like
you
do! I gotta go.”

He turned and walked quickly away down the street. His walk turned into an angry run, and he disappeared around the corner. Gibson watched, furious with himself, turned his head, and caught his breath.

Sandra, looking lovely as ever in her pink brocaded bathrobe and fluffy slippers, stood in the doorway watching. Their eyes met. Then she just shook her head and closed the front door, leaving him to curse his narrow-minded stupidity. He slammed his fist down on the car hood in anger, then got in and drove away, wondering if he’d lost his son for good.

Chapter 10