Between Darkness and Daylight (4 page)

Maybe his Uncle Zane would miss him, but Ransom seriously doubted it. Even his uncle wouldn't miss him, with the atrocious way he’d been behaving the last year.

Who would?

Ran put his head on the table, inhaled the moth-eaten smell of old wood, and cried for the first time since his mom died.

24

Gracie C. McKeever

* * * *

A little more than a year in New York and Nova had become

complacent, desensitized to all the dangers that living and working around the city entailed.

She hadn't noticed any of the things she usually did, oblivious to strangers who might have been watching her. She hadn't realized she’d been marked, dismissed, and followed several times over from the moment she’d crossed the street from her office building to walk the narrow caverns and cobblestone streets of lower Manhattan.

She’d been so positive and energetic leaving for lunch, too.

After the calamity with Josh and his cart, she’d gotten back to Mr.

Nelson and smoothed his ruffled feathers before heading out of the office to her much-deserved ice cream treat. On the go, she’d taken her phone and headset to stay in touch with the office. She'd reached out to and counseled a couple of clients, then called the office and consulted with the financial analyst, assuring him she’d be back for her meeting no later than two-thirty that afternoon.

Her mind had been going a mile a minute, touching on different deals she needed to make and people she needed to see. She’d been mildly aware of her surroundings and that she had strayed many blocks away from her office. She usually only had time to run downstairs to the cafeteria to grab a bite, if she wasn't out with a client on a business lunch.

Nova had only vaguely noticed the band of boys several yards away, leaning against the wall of a nearby building. She hadn't given them much thought, other than "typical urban teens," before that one kid broke from the pack and made his way over to her.

She’d experienced a flash of recognition when his fingers brushed her shoulder, the psychedelic images from the brief contact assaulting her vision so powerfully that she’d had to close her eyes against the overwhelming onslaught of memories and sensations.

A lifetime of her father's insistent military physical training and self-defense classes had kicked into gear and she’d pinned the boy to the pavement without conscious intent; it was only after the struggle was over that she considered the danger she’d put herself in. Jeesh, she could have
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25

gotten killed. She realized that now, when the small bruise beneath her eye spasmed as if to remind her of her stupidity.

Thing was, she didn't think the kid meant to hurt her. She’d felt his panic when she resisted, knew he’d expected her to be an easier target. He wouldn't have picked her otherwise.

That didn't excuse his uncouth behavior, and she couldn't wait to have a word with his parents, just to give them a piece of her mind. Nova doubted that it would do much good, doubted that his spending the last hour at the police station had taught him a lesson.

The time she’d spent here, however, had taught her more than she ever wanted to know about this cog in the criminal justice wheel. Big-city chaos reigned, with phones ringing off the hook, officers bustling in and out with perpetrators, and typewriters whirring a mile a minute. She would have been more unnerved if she weren't used to all the excitement. On a good day, her job rivaled this precinct decibel for decibel, especially when sales activity increased and the pace got very hectic.

Nova wondered how her perp was faring. It was difficult to think of him that way when she knew that, despite his height topping her five-eight by at least an inch, that he probably wasn't much more than thirteen. There was something so lanky and awkward about his movements, as if he wasn't comfortable in his own skin or was still adjusting to the growth spurts typical of early adolescence. He looked like he would break things with his childlike ungainliness.

And one of those things was almost you!

His youth certainly didn't negate the seriousness of his transgression, and she had a serious bone to pick with him about her PDA and headset.

The cell and headset alone ran a little more than half a grand, and either he or his parents
were
going to reimburse her for them. Not that monetary compensation could, in any way, shape or form, salve the wound to her person, which was minimal when compared to that of her ego.

She gingerly rubbed the cheekbone under her left eye, still smarting more from the fact that she’d let her guard down, something she didn't do often, than from actual pain.

"Here ya go, ma'am."

Nova looked up at the uniformed officer as he held out a plastic baggie packed with several ice cubes.

26

Gracie C. McKeever

"It'll help," he said when she didn't respond.

"Thank you." She took his offering and immediately plopped the baggie on her cheekbone. The cold did help, soothing the pain and slowing the throb to a dull tingle. Nova caught one of the officer's hands before he could leave, prepared to ask if the kid's parents had arrived, but was electrified with a sudden flash of familiarity at the brief contact.

She’d seen him before, and in this very police station!

"Ma'am?" He frowned down at her.

Nova stopped gaping long enough to return his look. She swallowed hard, tried to hide her confusion. She’d almost blurted out her realization, and that would never have done. She couldn't let the men in white coats take her away now, when she was so close to meeting
him
.

Curious, she moved the homemade ice pack away from her face and searched the floor for the auburn-haired detective. When she found him shaking hands with someone near the entrance, the ice pack slid from her grasp and dropped to the floor.

"Ma'am, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, officer." She was more than fine now, for making his way across the crowded floor, right behind the auburn-haired detective, was the stranger from her visions.

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27

Chapter 3

Right about now was the time when Zane would be popping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting up. But he’d given up the sticks soon after being diagnosed with aplastic anemia nearly twelve years ago. He couldn't have continued with such an unhealthy habit and wasted his sister's gift-of-life bone marrow donation.

Not that he wasn't supremely tempted at times, now being one of them.

Zane pulled a pack of sugarless gum from a khaki pocket, unwrapped and popped a stick in his mouth. Not exactly the nicotine rush he was looking for, a rush he still missed after all these years, but it would have to do.

"Youngblood!"

Zane recognized the voice, spotted the plainclothes officer waving a hand as he wound his way through the crowd towards him.

Almost three years ago, Dwyer Leary had been one of the detectives who caught and worked Sinnead's homicide case. He’d been incredibly sympathetic through the entire ordeal, bringing Zane in to identify his wife's body, questioning him—the husband was generally the most likely suspect—and finally identifying a viable suspect, who happened to be the irate husband of one of Zane's clients.

Once that suspect had been interrogated and eliminated, the police hadn't had any more leads to follow. An artist and photographer of moderate success, Sinny hadn't had many enemies to speak of. Back to square one, the police had resorted once more to questioning Zane and his and Sinny's friends, co-workers, and clients. By the time they’d zeroed back in on the original suspect—the abusive husband of the client whom Zane had helped place, along with their two children, in a women's shelter—the man had disappeared, presumably leaving the city, if not the country.

28

Gracie C. McKeever

To this day, Sinny's murder remained unsolved, labeled a random act of street violence in the commission of a robbery because her purse and jewelry had been taken from the crime scene. Officially, the case was closed.

Unofficially, it remained open, a cold case Leary worked in his spare time and gave Zane periodic updates on when he had the chance. Leary's main suspect remained MIA. But he—and therefore Zane—remained hopeful that the man would make a mistake or resurface.

"How're you, Leary?"

"Fair to middling. But that's normal around here." Leary clamped a hand on his shoulder, dwarfing Zane's six-foot-two by several inches.

"What about you?"

Zane shrugged. "Surviving." He thought about mentioning the prank calls and the vandalism in his neighborhood and at the school, but figured Leary already had enough on his plate without the added complication of what amounted to misdemeanor activity. The incidents were all on record, since Zane had filed reports; let the foot soldiers deal with it.

Leary nodded. "So anyway, I figured I’d catch you now, fill you in."

"Is Ransom okay?"

Leary put an arm around his shoulder and led him to a comparatively quiet corner near a water cooler. He helped himself to a cup and held up another in question, but Zane shook his head.

"This is the deal. Your kid got tagged for assault and batt—"

"Assault?
Battery!"

"Relax. The vic doesn't want to press charges."

"Why am I not relieved?"

Leary chuckled, clapped Zane on the back. "Any more cynical and I'm going to revoke your honorary Irishman status, O'Youngblood."

Normally possessed of a good sense of humor, Zane could barely muster a grimace at Leary's gibe. "So, what
does
he want?"

"It's a she. And she just wants compensation for a broken PDA and a titanium cell phone and headset. Pretty expensive equipment for a thirteen-year-old to have to replace."

"No doubt." Zane smirked. "Pain and suffering?"

Leary laughed. "Nothing so melodramatic, Youngblood. She doesn't seem litigious."

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29

"Yet." Given the chance, everyone was litigious. Zane had been dragged into court more times than not in the course of his job just to prove it. Not that this victim could get much out of him anyway. She could try but shouldn't hold her breath. "How did this happen? Ran's not an evil kid." He wasn't really expecting an answer, hadn't realized he’d spoken aloud until Leary responded.

"They never are."

Zane raised a brow, disturbed that Leary was so calm and
un
disturbed.

But then, Ransom wasn't
his
nephew.

"He tried to lift her purse. Little lady gave as good as she got, though.

That's where the A&B came in. There was a little scuffle. She got a couple of bruises…"

Purse snatching? Assault and battery? Just the idea that someone could fall victim to Sinny's fate at the hands of his own nephew chilled Zane's bones.

Where did I go wrong?

"Where is he now?"

"We've got him in an interrogation room. Figured we’d shake him up a little before you got here. Teach him a lesson."

Hell, Zane was shaken up enough for the both of them. "Thanks. I owe you." He grabbed Leary's hand in a firm shake.

"She wants to meet with you, discuss reparations, get an apology from her perp."

"Can I see Ran first?"

"Sure. I'll give you two a few minutes before I send her back."

* * * *

Zane stood outside the heavy wooden door for several long moments, took a few deep breaths and braced himself.

The minute he opened the door and saw Ransom at the table, he could understand how his own stepfather had been driven to resort to physical measures after Zane's destructive joy-riding adventure with some friends.

High on freedom, immortality, and youth, Zane and his boys had rented a car on spring break during his sophomore year of college. They’d gone speeding down some nameless expressway—didn't matter which, just a 30

Gracie C. McKeever

piece of open road and smooth pavement where they could fully experience the fancy car's speed and potential—and wrapped it around a lamppost.

Miraculously, the four teenagers had escaped the totaled car with their lives, all avoiding serious injury. However, one of the boys had had outstanding warrants and an extensive record that made riding with him dangerous in and of itself. He’d gone up for a long time afterwards, shipped off to a state prison in Colorado, and sworn revenge against Zane and his buddies for no other reason than they had all gotten off scot-free and he hadn't.

He approached the table and Ransom’s head popped up like he was waking from a deep sleep. His eyes were red. That could have been from tiredness, but Zane was sure he had been crying; the boy's eyes and cheeks were still moist.

Zane popped his gum furiously, hands clenched at his sides. He hadn't laid a hand on Ransom in the year they'd lived together, but seeing him here, in the last place in the world any father, stepfather, or uncle wanted to see his kid, made something snap inside him, and he cuffed the boy. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but it was firm enough to get Ran's attention.

He had a flash of his stepfather doing the same thing to him. Up until the joy-riding incident, Oscar had been living in Zane and Sage's house, married to their mom—a polite, unobtrusive stranger, always there to bail his stepson out of any scrapes he got into, which to that point had been relatively minor in scope and severity if not frequency.

Zane's mom, one of the early proponents of Tough Love childrearing, had wanted Oscar to leave him in police custody overnight, teach him a lesson, but he hadn't wanted the whole criminal system, lock-up experience on Zane's psyche or record any more than was already the case.

He’d settled instead for that firm cuff upside the head to show his disappointment and displeasure when he picked up him from the precinct.

After that incident, his stepfather had ceased being the specter in the shadows that Sage and Zane’s mother had married, but instead their father and a man deserving all the affection, attention and respect that came with the title.