STOLEN (14 page)

Hope
was waiting for Tristan to answer her question when her cellphone rang. She was
relieved to see Sophie Harris’ name and number come up on the caller I.D.
screen.

“Hello?” She answered, placing the phone on speaker, leaving
her hands free just in case.

“Hope, it’s Sophie, I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to
get back to you, I have had several emergency placements, and I have been
looking for a foster family for Tristan. It appears that I am completely out of
options right now. One family has been thrown out of the system. I was going to
call Judy, ask her if she had a spot for him at Armistace, but I wanted to get
your take on that first.” She sounded out of breath and overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry, Sophie, but we are overcapacity as it stands
now. The state has been making noises and even made some threats about closing
us down. We just can’t afford to admit one more patient. What about the lady he
was placed with this morning? Can’t she take him back?”

She kept her eyes on Tristan. His fingers were weaving in
and out, twirling the hair of the man in the bed. It reminded her of when her
old tabby cat Kibbles would knead his favorite blanket. She would sit for hours
hypnotized by the repetitive motion of the cat’s mitten-like white paws. She
almost got lost in the moment when she realized she was in the middle of a
conversation with the social worker.

“Same problem, we had to place twin siblings with her this
afternoon. I don’t know what other options I have at this point, I may have to
call another county residence, not the best option.” Sophie reported.

Suddenly, Hope felt the nape of her neck being nuzzled.
Marty came up behind her and planted a kiss on the side of her throat. She was
startled at first, but then recognized the familiar feel of his five o’clock
shadow and the faint remains of his favorite cologne. He whispered something
into her ear, but she wasn’t sure she heard right, she changed her position so
she could see his face. The crease in the middle of her forehead deepened as
she tried to decipher what he had actually said.

He put his hand over the phone to cover the speaker. “Tell
her we will take him tonight.”

She shook her head. “Marty, that’s not a good idea,” she
whispered in reply. She turned back to look at Tristan, who now was watching the
two of them. She had no doubt the boy was listening, intently, to everything
being said. The child’s head was lying flat across Troy Blakey’s chest, but his
eyes were wide open, watching her carefully, and his mouth slightly agape. His
chest wasn’t moving; it looked to her as if he was holding his breath.

She rolled her eyes in defeat, and as she did, she noticed
Tristan’s chest deflate as though the weight of the world was just taken off
his narrow shoulders. At the same time, she realized that behind her, Marty
must have been also holding his breath because she felt a puff of warm air land
on the back of her neck.

Marty was looking down at her with those soft blue eyes, and
she could literally feel the child’s eyes on her as well. She was afraid to
look over, but she knew she was trapped. She worried this would be the moment
she would live to regret.

She took a deep breath before she spoke into the phone.

“Sophie, I’ll take him tonight, but please try to make other
arrangements as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, thank you, Hope, so much. You have just made my
day.” The social worker cried out in delight just before she disconnected the
call.

“This is not a good idea, Marty.” She told him again. “You
have more than enough on your plate right now.” She knew she was wasting her
breath, but she gave it all she had anyway. “Who’s going to watch him while
you’re at work? We need to get him in a structured environment, into school.”
Hope glanced over at the boy who hadn’t moved, his position lying next to the
man in the bed. The thought occurred to her, it was a possibility Tristan may
never have even attended school before. This could possibly be bigger than what
Marty thought it was. This little boy was not one of the multitudes of nephews
he was accustomed to. She contemplated how this child very well may be a very
scared and damaged child, capable of who knows what. Although she had to admit
Tristan appeared to be sweet and innocent, her experience had taught her that
even the most angelic face could hide an evil mind. She briefly flashed on a
memory of the towheaded Brad Madison, the sweet little boy who confessed to the
brutal murder of his parents two years ago and who was still in residence at
Armistace today.

Shaking her head, not in disgust but dismay, Hope walked
over to Tristan and held out her hand. “Come on, Tristan; let’s get you home,
into a hot bath and to bed.”

Showing some reluctance in leaving the man in the bed, the
child hesitated before sliding down off the hospital bed and onto the floor. He
wasn’t on his feet long before Marty noticed how exhausted the boy was by the
way he wobbled as he walked, so Marty scooped him up. Tristan wrapped his arms
around Marty’s neck, laid his head down on his broad shoulder, and before they reached
the hospital’s parking lot, the boy was fast asleep. Watching them both
carefully, Hope was conflicted. She felt a sense of warmth and pride as she
observed this big muscular man be so gentle and caring; yet was overcome with
uneasiness about the predicament they now found themselves in. She could hear
her mother’s voice forewarning her about taking in a stray and wondered if this
was the time her mother finally got it right.

Jean
left a message on Marty’s cell and then called the information into dispatch.

She shook her head in disbelief. How on earth did her
daughter once again become personally involved in a criminal investigation?
Even if Bethany was indirectly involved and had absolutely no culpability this
time, Jean found herself irritated. If it turned out the guy who stole Dylan’s
motorcycle was indeed the shooter they were looking for, Bethany could be
called to testify in a criminal trial as a witness. And much to her mother’s
dismay, once again her teenage daughter would be catapulted into a legal storm.
It occurred to her that wherever the teenage lothario, Dylan Silver, went,
trouble seemed to follow. As much as she was determined to dislike the kid, she
understood what it was her daughter was attracted to.

He may have seemed a little rough around the edges with his
James Dean style and manner of dress, but he was a polite, well-mannered, soft
spoken eighteen year old who helped take care of his two younger siblings and
widowed mother, who was recently diagnosed with M.S. and now confined to a
wheelchair. That made it almost impossible for Jean to come up with an adequate
reason why Bethany needed to keep him at arm’s length. Jean also was aware of
the fact, although her daughter was younger then the boy by more than two years,
her daughter’s maturity level and intellect put her in a completely different
league than Dylan’s. She took some comfort in believing the relationship would never
really develop into something more serious, because Dylan would be forever
racing to try and keep up with her daughter and no matter how hard he tried, he
would never find himself on the same level as Bethany.

She debated with herself, questioning her own integrity and
motives, for feeling that way and whether or not she was being a snob. After
all, she wasn’t one to talk. Her own husband, Glenn, was a brilliant and very
successful chemical engineer; and she was just a homicide detective in a small
town in upstate New York.

Those thoughts made her even more nervous. Would that be an
argument her daughter would use against her if she used their intellectual
differences in order to try and persuade Bethany to find another Romeo?

She knew how Glenn felt and he made no secret about it, telling
her to let things go and let nature take its course. He told her time and time
again to keep her criticism of the kid to a minimum; and if she kept harping on
it, her daughter was likely to rebel and change her status with the boy from
friendship to something a lot more complicated. She knew from past experience
that Glenn was right, but it was just so hard to stop from worrying.

She wondered now if her friend and co-worker, Detective
Kathy Blackwelder, was on point the other day when she mentioned that dirty
word, the ‘M’ word. Was Kathy on point when she injected that Jean’s moodiness
and crankiness was the result of diminishing estrogen? Was she entering the
throes of menopause?

Sitting there looking at the iPad screen and her case notes,
she realized her mind had drifted way off course and she wasn’t concentrating.
Her mind was nowhere on the photograph in front of her, the high school photo
of a young Troy Blakey, the man who was lying in the hospital with two gunshot
wounds. The old black and white photograph, taken from his high school yearbook,
showed a grinning teenager, wide smile, a thick mane of dark hair hanging loose
just a cut above his shoulders. No sign of facial hair yet, but by no means was
there a hint of a baby face. A strong jawline and his wide flashy smile did not
hide what his eyes showed. There was a host of sadness in those eyes. The smile,
she thought, was nothing more than a mask to cover something. Something she may
never learn about if the man did not regain consciousness.

She shut off the electronic device. Cussing under her breath,
she decided to spend the rest of the evening trying to forget she was a cop and
decided to make an effort just to concentrate on her family. She said a silent
prayer. “Please, let me get through an evening without any drama or homicidal
maniacs to hunt down.”

Shane watched them all leave the room and then made his
move.

He walked right past the fat cop, with the mop and bucket,
as if it was routine. He even smiled at him when the moon-faced cop glanced up
from the game he was playing on his cellphone.

Looking down at his brother, lying helpless in the bed, made
him queasy. He wasn’t used to seeing Troy so vulnerable. Although most of the
medical apparatus had been removed, there were still some weird looking things attached
to the unconscious man and he knew enough to realize it was necessary to
monitor his brother’s condition. He did wonder what the clothespin-like thing
attached to his brother’s finger was doing and if it was important.

Keeping his back to the door so the cop couldn’t see his
face, he got close to Troy, trying to access his condition, as he made a
pretense to swab the floor.

“Troy, hey bro, wake up, man” He leaned in close enough that
he was actually able to feel his brother’s warm breath on his cheek. “Shit, man,
I need you to wake up. I need . . . .” He looked over towards
the doorway nervously.

He didn’t know how much time he would be able to spend in
the room before the fat cop got suspicious.

It was when he heard the other voices he realized the cop
was no longer alone. There was activity outside the room and it was becoming
more apparent that he didn’t have any more time. He needed to get out of there
before he got caught. Frustrated, he squeezed his brother’s shoulder, taking
care not to cause him any pain, made a few passes with the damp mop and then turned
and walked out of the room. Keeping his face turned away from the guard who was
now talking to a nurse, he mumbled a “Have a good day,” as he walked past, down
the hallway on his way towards the elevator. The doors opened and he slipped in
as several people exited. His thoughts were jumping around like a cricket
during mating season. It was as if each thought simulated a Ping Pong ball and
his brain was the paddle. He would come up with an idea and another one would replace
it, not giving himself any time to formulate a plan to get Troy and Tristan out
of this town. But then he remembered why they came to this part of the country
in the first place. This is where the answers to all of their questions were. All
the paperwork they found hidden in the old man’s file cabinet in the shed led
them to this place. This is where he had to be, even if he risked the cops catching
him. No matter how scared he was now, of getting caught by the cops, he needed to
find out the truth.

And then he had second thoughts. Maybe they should just
forget it. Maybe he should just stay out of sight until Troy was able to leave
and they could get Tristan and get out of here and go back to Oregon. Go back
home.

Then he got angry.

He had a flashback of that Oregon cop coming to the house
and telling him and Troy how they found a body and they identified it as
M’leigh and he realized that the old man had been wrong. She didn’t take off
and leave them. Troy had been right all along. Troy had been adamant that M’leigh
would never leave them, insisting that she would never just take off and leave
her little boy behind. His big brother knew that the old man was lying and,
once again, his big brother was right. M’leigh didn’t run away at all. She was
murdered; and now he knew for a fact exactly who was responsible.

Troy always thought that something happened the day that
M’leigh disappeared. Something bad.

They had come home from an overnight trip to pick up scrap
metal in another state. When they arrived home, the old man and M’leigh were
nowhere to be found. Tristan, almost three years old at the time, was alone and
asleep in his crib. From the overwhelming smell, they could tell that the little
boy’s diaper was full. Troy had lifted the sleeping boy out of the crib and
they noticed how red and swollen the little boy’s face was, as if he had been
crying nonstop. The toddler whimpered as he began to wake up, but immediately
stopped when he saw Troy’s face above him.

Troy was confused. Where was M’leigh and why was the baby
lying in a soaking wet bed? Still holding the child up, he immediately removed
his soiled pajamas. Troy placed the little boy on the changing table he and
Shane built from a large cedar tree. The table was a work of fine art Shane and
Troy spent months perfecting. They had cut down the tree, planed it, and
constructed it so it was safe and sturdy. The two men spent hours sanding and
shellacking the table; and M’leigh fell in love with the gift and would run her
hand over the finish, caressing it time and time again.

Taking a fresh diaper out of one of the drawers, Troy
instructed his brother to get a wet washcloth and some clean clothes for the
little boy.

He spent ten minutes cleaning off the stale feces and urine
from the little boy’s bottom, and grabbed a tube of Desitin to smear over the
redness and irritation that appeared under the child’s testicles and in the
crack of his little behind.

While Troy was busy doing that, Shane made up a bottle of
warm milk and handed it to Tristan, who grabbed it and thrust it into his mouth
and sucked on it hungrily.

Moments later, the door opened and Troy was about to blast
M’leigh for leaving the little boy in such a state, but it wasn’t M’leigh that
walked through the door.

“Hey, you guys back?” The old man walked into the room
holding two brown paper sacks of groceries, one in each of his arms. “How was the
trip?” He asked nonchalantly, as he turned around and walked back into the kitchen,
as if nothing was awry, placing the grocery bags on the kitchen table.

Troy handed the little boy to Shane and followed his father
into the kitchen. “Where’s M’leigh? We came home and found Tristan alone, his
diaper needed changing.”

“What do you mean?” The old man answered, taking items out
of the bags and placing the ones that needed refrigeration into the icebox.

“She’s not here. Tristan was alone, where is she?” Troy’s
voice rose in volume; his thoughts wavered between confusion and anger.

“She’s not here? She was here when I left for the store. She
was watching one of those stupid shows she likes to watch. She told me to pick
up some sponges.” He lifted a package out of the plastic bag and held it up for
Troy to see. “Said we were low on them.”

Shane walked back into the room, the little boy’s head
resting on his shoulder. Hearing the voices, Tristan raised his head slightly
and started to whimper again. Within seconds they turned into soft cries. The
little boy’s head jerked slightly, as if he was having spasms between the sobs.
His nose started to run and Troy grabbed a cloth and wiped below the boy’s
nose.

“She probably went out to get a pack of cigarettes or
something.” The old man suggested. “She’s probably on her way home,
unless . . . .”

Shane just stood there listening, not quite sure what to
make of the whole scene. He could tell that Troy was getting anxious. He knew
what was coming.

“Unless what?” Troy questioned the old man.

“Well, Troy, you know how antsy she’s been lately. How’s
she’s been talking about getting out of here. How she was overwhelmed and
complaining she was always tired. That she was bored living
here . . . maybe—”

“Bullshit!” Not wanting to hear his father’s opinion, Troy
took Tristan from Shane.

“Where’s Mommy, Tristan?” he asked the little boy, whose
eyes were red and swollen.

The little boy had just started to put a few words together
and one of his favorite words was ‘Mommy.’ Well, it was more like he was saying
‘mammy.’ His vocabulary was growing, and he was beginning to talk in sentences,
but two or three words seemed to dominate his speech.

Mammy, milk, and Shane were the three words he said
repeatedly. Once in a blue moon he would say, or try to say, ‘daddy,’ but it
came out ‘dirty.’