Blood Ties (28 page)

His teeth showed white against his copper skin; he rotated the toothpick to the other side of his mouth in a sexy, confi dent move which reminded me of a young East-wood. “You are one ballsy broad. Few people in my life speak so freely.” He reached out; his hand gathered my hair absentmindedly, stroking a golden section like the fi nest silken fabric. Th

e eroticism increased when his calloused thumb lingered on the pulse beating wildly beneath my chin as he tucked the strands behind my ear. “You sure you don’t want to come to work for me?”

Somehow, my voice sounded sure and steady. “I didn’t realize riding around on the back of your bike was a paying position.”

“It is for you.”

I shrugged away his off er, pretending I declined them every day. “When I’m looking for something new, I’ll let you know.” It paid to keep my options open, especially when I understood Tony wasn’t really blaming me for the latest development in the Dick saga. I off ered up a little prayer to the patron saint of bars. Guess being in church
had
done me some good.

“Th

e off er will stand.” His black eyes zeroed in on the crusted gash on my cheek. “Who did that?”

I dropped my gaze to the gravel beneath my Doc 297

Martens and lifted a shoulder.

He lifted my face back toward his, smoothing his palm over the mark, demanding, “Tell me.”

“It’s been handled,” I said, wary of the anger in his eyes and remembering too late Jimmer’s warning about steering clear of Tony, his goons, and his brand of justice.

After brushing a feather-light kiss over it, he retreated.

“I’ll make sure of it. In the meantime, Dick is in good hands.”

“Who’s representing him?”

Tony gave me that killer grin. “Mark Adderton. Heard of him?”

Hell, everyone knew Mark Adderton. He was the Midwest equivalent of Gerry Spence. Dick Friel was in good hands, indeed.

“Be careful,” he warned softly, smoothing his hand over my scalp one last time, letting his hand linger by my ear. Th

e guy had a serious Jones for my hair.

“Of

what?”

Th

e thing which seemed the most dan-

gerous to me right now was why Tony Martinez appealed to my basal instincts. I needed sex. Pretty soon old Mr.

Lambert from Dusty’s would start looking good.

“I have a feeling you’ve only scratched the surface on this. It’ll probably get nastier yet before it’s over.”

As I watched him swagger back into the bar, I had the feeling he was probably right.

298

Kevin called that night. “Shelley’s funeral is Saturday.”

“So

soon?”

“Her mother came back and made all the arrangements.”

At least Meredith wasn’t handling this alone. “Where are the kids staying?”

“With her.” He hesitated. “Want me to pick you up?”

He knew I hated funerals. Was he off ering his support?

Or, was this a duty I needed to perform as his employee?

At this point I didn’t care. I was glad he’d asked. I missed his company more than was healthy. “Sure.”

As I hung up I realized I’d half-expected a phone call or a visit from Meredith. Once again, we had death in common. But the phone and the doorbell stayed quiet.

When I got home from work Friday, the light on my answering machine blinked red. First time this week someone actually wanted to talk to me. Th

e excitement won out over

fear it might be Ray calling to make additional threats.

I hit playback.

“Julie?

Th

is is Father Tim O’Reilly. My secretary told me you and Kevin stopped by. I tried calling him but his machine didn’t pick up.” He paused and his voice dropped an octave. “Look. I need to talk to you. I can’t get into it 299

over the phone and you can’t reach me at the church camp.

But would you let Kevin know I’ve been in touch and I’ll call back later? God’s blessings to you.”

I didn’t remember giving Father Tim my unlisted number, but that didn’t concern me as much as the idea Kevin wasn’t answering his offi

ce phone. I dialed the num-

ber and let it ring. No answer. Same thing at home. And his cell kicked to voice mail. Not only was it bad for business, it was bad for our friendship that whatever his problems, he wasn’t confi ding in me. At this point I so craved a connection with him that I’d even listen to him snivel about Lilly.

Car doors slamming and loud voices next door broke into my brooding. I lifted the curtain. Looked like Leanne was in the party mood again. Poor Kiyah. Would she seek refuge at my house? I mixed up a box of brownies just in case, nobly ignored the last can of beer, and sat down to watch TV.

I woke at 2 a.m., alone, my arm screaming in pain from the unnatural angle it’d been in when I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Feeling more bereft than I had in months, I didn’t see it getting any better soon. Shelley’s funeral wouldn’t bring anyone closure. Especially me.

Funerals bothered me in principle. No matter how 300

uniquely a person lived their life, their fi nal send-off remained predictable: hushed voices, standard black clothing, unscented fl owers, and music usually consisting of a bad vocal rendition of “How Great Th

ou Art.” Not to

mention the printed programs chronicling a person’s entire life in one tiny paragraph, and a guest book to sign, as if it were all some understated cocktail party. Add in traipsing to the cemetery, and back to the church for fi nger food, and it became a bizarre ritual I avoided.

I lodged my biggest complaint against how guests rub-bernecked the grieving family to judge how well they were

“holding up.” Hysterics belonged at home. Th ose souls

fi lled with grief and pain were expected to act like gracious hosts and accept meaningless phrases as comfort from those people that were basically voyeurs.

Catholic funerals are only slightly weirder than Baptist funerals. Pomp, circumstance, and incense are digni-fi ed compared to talk of hellfi re, brimstone, and eternal damnation. Still, Baptist funerals are atypical and I’d pick wrath over decorum. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice today.

Th

e humidity on Saturday morning made the cold air outside feel like the inside of a meat locker. Kevin pulled up and Kiyah waved at me as she bounded down the road to the playground. I shivered against the synthetic fabric of my suit; the same one I’d worn when I fi rst interviewed Shelley. Kevin’s usual compliment was slow in coming.

301

Th

e service was short. No need for the priest to drone on when there were so few people in attendance.

Dick Friel sat stiffl

y beside a stoop-shouldered, white-

haired woman I assumed was Shelley’s mother. She, Dick, Meredith, and RJ made up the entire front pew. When RJ

turned to look at the soloist, his resemblance to Dick was uncanny. Dick would have a hard time proving RJ wasn’t his kid.

Th

e woman in the second row bore a striking similar-ity to Shelley, but in a refi ned way that led me to believe her life had turned out much diff erent from her sister’s.

I didn’t recognize the two older women or the couple in front of us. Tony and Harvey had taken seats farthest from the pulpit. David and Charles LaChance sat on opposite ends of the same pew in the back.

We skipped the trip to the cemetery. Th e funeral di-rector kept the family secluded, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to Meredith. Part of me didn’t know what to say; part of me knew exactly what she needed to hear. Tony and I exchanged a brief nod. Th

e LaChances didn’t acknowledge

us at all.

Kevin cranked the heater to full blast on the drive back to my house. Once again we were silent. Kevin’s distraction only heightened my misery. I didn’t know how the day could get any worse.

As we slowed to make the corner of my street, I saw Kiyah, slumped on a sawed-off railroad tie, close to the 302

same place I’d seen her more than two hours earlier. Th e

ruffl

ed purple parasol had stopped twirling, her shoes dug into the mud.

My stomach made a swooping tumble. “Stop the car.”

Kevin hit the brakes and I jumped out and ran toward her, my heels slipping in the muck and slop.

Kiyah looked up at my approach, cowering against the cold. Her white arms were covered in goosefl esh, her jaw clenched against the shudders shaking her small body. On her slight frame she wore a skimpy yellow lace camisole, a long pink skirt and the sequined Mary Jane’s I’d bought her last week. She didn’t smile, didn’t hold her arms out for a hug, didn’t move beyond another shiver.

I shoved the rage down a layer and crouched eye level to her. “Hey. Little cold to be playing dress-up, isn’t it?”

Her head drooped to her chest in misery and embarrassment.

My arms slipped underneath her. I lifted her easily; she weighed next to nothing. “Have you been out here all morning?”

Kiyah buried her chilled face against the heat rising in my neck.

“Where’s

your

mom?”

“H-h-home.”

“Does she know you’re out here?”

She

nodded.

I purposely kept my voice light, friendly. “Did she send 303

you outside to play?”

“S-she an’ B-bobby wanted to b-be ‘lone.”

Th

ey’d sent a child out in the cold, barely dressed enough for a summer tea, so they could fuck. My insides pitched again and I clamped my teeth together to stop from screaming my outrage, focusing my attention on the little girl shivering in my arms. “Did you eat anything today?”

“Huh-uh.”

I took a deep breath and stumbled back to Kevin’s car.

Damn Leanne. Her cavalier attitude toward Kiyah could get the child killed. I could kill her myself. Any sicko could’ve driven off the interstate and snatched her. How long would Kiyah have to be gone before Leanne noticed?

I hugged her to my chest, pushing aside the comparisons between Kiyah and Samantha Friel.
Never
. I’d never allow it to happen.

“Julie.”

Kevin had scrambled up the small hill and held his arms out, but I shook my head, reluctant to let go of my charge. “She’s frozen. I’ll warm her up at my house before I take her home.” We slid in, and her arms tightened like frozen ropes around my neck. “How about some hot soup Yippee Ki-Yi-Yay?” My pet name for her didn’t even bring a smile. I smoothed her dirty hair, humming softly again her temple.

At home I fi lled the tub with warm water and dug out the extra clothes I keep on hand. Kevin heated tomato 304

soup, whipped up a couple of grilled cheese sandwichesn and we watched Kiyah eat. She made no pretense of dainti-ness; she shoveled in every morsel and drank two glasses of milk. I had to leave the kitchen; I couldn’t stomach that sweet, sweet child eating like a starving Ethiopian.

I smoked and stared out through the bluish haze covering my front window. Nearly every house on my block was broken down to some degree. How many other kids were like Kiyah? Like Samantha? Waiting for someone, anyone to notice them? Th

e tears I wouldn’t give into ear-

lier this week fell unheeded.

I heard Kevin move in behind me, felt his gentle hands cup my shoulders, felt his warmth digging for purchase inside that dark place inside me where I’d retreated. “You hungry?” he murmured.

“No.”

“Me, either.” His palms slid down my arms to clutch my hands.

I left my cigarette smoking in the ashtray and leaned back into him. “I hate this.”

“I

know.”

“What am I going to do?”

“You need to call Social Services.”

My gut tightened. “I can’t do that.”

“Jules, you have to. You’re too close to this. Kiyah needs someone like you, but not necessarily
you
.”

Th

e cigarette smoke rose in a straight line from the 305

ashtray until our words caused it to waver and curl again.

“She’s only six.”

“Th

at’s all the more reason for you to make the call.”

“Kevin . . .”

He turned me around, his face so soft another bout of tears arose. “You can’t make this your problem anymore.

Don’t you think I know how much she means to you? Th is

is killing you. God, it’s hard enough with you still dealing with Ben’s death . . . I can’t stand to watch you hurt, babe.

She isn’t your child, but she might have a chance if you let the system handle it.”

“Th

e system sucks.” I sniffl

ed. “She’ll get shuffl

ed off to

some foster home where she’ll be subjected to kids that’ve been through much worse situations. And they’ll teach her all sorts of new, bad tricks.”

“Or,” he countered as he smoothed his fi ngertips over my wet cheeks. “Maybe some nice family will give her the love she deserves.”

I bristled against his well meaning platitudes. “Do you know the statistics on sexual abuse in those places?”

“No.” Kevin placed a tender kiss on my temple. “But, maybe her mother will wise up when the social workers appear on her doorstep.”

“Yeah,

right.

Th

e only way Leanne is gonna wake up

and smell the sour milk is when her ADC and WIC checks stop coming.”

“Julie?”

306

Kiyah’s small voice interrupted our fi erce whispers.

Kevin and I moved apart. “Yeah, sweet pea? You still hungry?” I wiped away a sandwich crumb from the corner of her mouth and she fl inched.

“No. I’m tired.”

“Why don’t you lie down in the little bedroom? Th e

Barbie jammies are clean. I’ll come and tuck you in a sec.”

Kiyah hesitated, staring at her tiny pink toes. “I wanna go home.”

I couldn’t meet Kevin’s gaze. Home. She wanted to go home; regardless of what I’d done for her, or could do for her, it’d never be enough. She wanted her mother; even bad mothers have more appeal than non-mothers. I gulped the chunk of my heart that had stuck in my throat. “Sure, whatever you want. I’ll walk you over.”

Her wet clothes were a pitifully small bundle in her arms as we trekked over the sludge and soggy, decaying leaves. Th