The Way Things Are (2 page)

“I heard something like that, yeah.”

“If you can pull that off every shift, you’re going to be everybody’s new best friend around here.”

“Tonight’s job was slated for two shifts,” the assistant chimed in.

“If that was taking your last operator two shifts, he wasn’t worth what you were paying him.”

Ethan chuckled a little and brushed at his combed-over hair. “That’s why he isn’t here, right?” He leapt up from his swivel chair and shooed Patrick toward the coffee pot. He took the cup from Patrick’s hand, refilled it for him, and handed it back. “Seriously, though, we have these things called breaks. Dinner, coffee, more coffee. That kind of thing.”

Patrick dropped his gaze to his boots. “Sorry. In New York, the crew working any given terminal was expected to finish the job they started. I figured out pretty quick that the sooner I got shit done, the sooner I could go home. Of course, we were paid for what we moved, not by the hour.”

“You only get a bonus for how much you move here. It’s supposed to make for fewer accidents. Don’t worry, though. Most of these guys know a quarter of their income is wrapped up in their bonus, so they don’t care, and I’ve got enough guys on deck that they can change out with the rest of the crew for breaks. But, I’ve still got to do the union thing, so Monday night you tell me what time you want dinner and we’ll shut it down, okay?”

“Sure.” He groaned as the phone in his back pocket vibrated again. He pulled his phone out and glanced at his boss. “Would you mind if I take this? It’s probably my kid.”

“Yeah, go for it.” Ethan plopped into the creaking chair and rolled back to the workstation. “How old?”

“He’s fourteen. Fifteen in October.” The vibrating stopped right as he was about to unlock the screen. He checked his missed calls and found that eight of them were from a restricted number. Theoretically, that could be an ER, but it was most likely the jail. “It’s probably him.”

“He okay?”

“That depends on what he’s done this time,” Patrick said grimly.

“Uh-oh. Is he in trouble?”

Patrick sighed and tried not to smirk. “He’s my son. He’s always in trouble.” Patrick dialed his voice mail and listened to the first message.

“Uh… Pop, I…. Shit. You’re totally going to kill me,” his son Jay whispered in the message. “I know you’re busy, I do, but do you think… maybe on your lunch break or something… you could come pick me up? I don’t think I’ve got a fine yet, since it’s my first time. Well, you know, my first time here in Washington.” He heard his son sigh. “I’m sorry, Pop, I don’t know how much time this phone will give me, but the guard said it’s got a time limit, and I’m….” The message ended with a soft beep.

“He’s in jail,” Patrick confirmed.

Ethan glanced up at him and chuckled. “Damn. He doesn’t waste any time, does he? He too afraid to call your old lady?” Ethan asked.

“My ex is still in New York. It’s just me and him.”

“Well, we’re done. Go clock out and take care of it. Have a good morning.”

He nodded to them as the elevator closed behind him. He let the voice mail cycle through each message, even though he already knew what each message would say.

Patrick rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly wishing he could be back up in the crane again. But the days where he could hide at work and trust someone else to take care of his son were long gone. The second message was a long, stuttering apology from Jay for getting arrested again. The third message had been recorded an hour later. Jay’s voice was calmer this time, but still quiet and subdued as he left the address and phone number for the King County Juvenile Detention Center.

“They said they might take me to probation and parole and get a preliminary hearing done, if you can get here before they close. I told them you’re working until morning, but—” The timer cut Jay off again.

He’d hoped that moving his son out of New York would be the catalyst Jay needed to change. If Jay’s trouble had been with gangs, or drugs, or even friends who were a bad influence, it might have helped. But moving from one coast to the other wouldn’t keep his son from getting in trouble.

Jay was talkative, social, and obsessed with video games featuring scantily clad women and zombies—totally normal, until you saw him with a sketchbook in his hands. He always had a sketchbook. There were dozens stacked in his room and more shoved into boxes in his closet. And beyond the sketchbooks, there was the graffiti.

The first time Patrick found him in an alley covering up gang tags with a rough, spray-paint version of one of his drawings, Patrick hadn’t been worried. He’d grounded him for a week, warned him doing shit like that would get him arrested or hurt, and left it at that. Two years later, Patrick had the New York City Juvenile Detention Center’s phone number on speed dial and he was at his wit’s end. No matter how much trouble Jay got in, no matter how many extra chores he had to do or how much community service he was forced into, he wouldn’t stop painting graffiti. He had always apologized, sworn he’d never do it again, and ended up hiding paint-stained clothes in his laundry again within a month.

Desperate, Patrick had packed up their stuff in a U-Haul truck and moved them out of New York. He’d hoped getting away from the city and all of the memories it held would help. He figured he’d at least have a little time to get settled before the kid got in trouble again, but they hadn’t even managed to unpack more than their clothes and dishes yet.

“Couldn’t stay out of trouble for two fucking weeks….”

Patrick unlocked his truck while he listened to Jay’s last message, repeating the address and phone number of the detention center. He scribbled the information on the back of an old receipt and then skipped to the last message.

As the message began to play, another voice cut through the rambling words coming from his phone. It cut through the sound of the rail system and the equipment on the dock too.

“Don’t let the little faggot get away!”

Patrick ended the call, shoved his phone into his jacket pocket, and tried to find the source of the voice.

Each shipping terminal had its own employee parking lot, and between each shipping terminal were vast stretches of concrete and rails used to store, shift, and move the enormous multicolored shipping containers that the entire shipping terminal was built to accommodate. They were stacked four to eight containers high, in long rows that always reminded Patrick of city streets. And near the edge of the stack beside the employee parking lot, three men in dark clothing were circling around a smaller figure.

Patrick stepped out of his truck to try and get a glimpse of what was going on. Through the haze of predawn shadows, he saw a quiet, gruesome attack taking shape. Patrick zipped his jacket tight and jogged toward the dark figures. Against the side of a rusted blue shipping container, three men were kicking a body curled up on the ground at their feet. Patrick couldn’t see anything of the man they were attacking except that he was tiny. He didn’t look any bigger than Jay.

“Fuck,” he whispered. He dialed 911 fast, explained the situation as quickly as he could, and then set his phone down, leaving it connected.

“Hey, leave him alone!” he shouted. One of the men glanced up at him, but the others did nothing. He took a deep breath and charged into the largest of the three men.

He adjusted his stride to catch the biggest guy as he pulled his leg back for another kick. He knocked the man’s chin up with a quick jab, then threw all of his momentum into an elbow to the man’s jaw. He felt the vibration of the impact all the way to his shoulders but he kept moving, shoving the man into the aluminum container so hard it clanged.

Patrick regained his footing fast and turned his attention to the other two men. One of them squared off against him while the other stood frozen with his foot poised for another kick. The braver of the two ran toward him, trying to pull back a sloppy roundhouse punch while he was rushing forward. The shift in his momentum slowed him down and threw him off balance so badly that all Patrick had to do was step to the side, grab the man’s arm to keep him in place, and kick down hard. The crack echoed around them, the sound of bone shattering muted by flesh. The man’s eyes widened.

Generally, Patrick believed in fighting fair, but that belief didn’t extend beyond the ropes of a boxing ring. He pulled the man’s arm to throw him farther off balance. His shattered knee collapsed beneath him. When Patrick dropped his arm, the man crumpled onto the ground, screaming.

Patrick shifted toward the third attacker. The man was smaller than the other two, but Patrick had been in enough bar fights to know that didn’t count for much. Little guys were often some of the most determined and violent fighters. This man didn’t look frightened or nervous. After watching Patrick take out his companions, the calm amusement in his eyes meant the guy was either very dangerous or a moron. The man circled Patrick carefully, slowly pulling out a dark gray revolver.

“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” the man asked, calmly raising the gun.

“I’m nobody,” said Patrick, watching the man’s eyes and body carefully.

The man chuckled and cocked the hammer of the revolver. “Well, nobody, this isn’t your business. Walk away, man.”

“I already called the police. They might not look too hard for some gay-bashing asshole, but if you pull that trigger, you can bet your ass they’ll hunt you down.”

“Why the fuck would you care what happens to this little whore?”

“You can hear the sirens getting closer,” Patrick tried again. Even as Patrick said the words, he saw the man shift his gaze to the side, where red and blue flashing lights were beginning to bounce around the stacks and rows of metal containers.

“Fuck this,” he muttered before taking off between the stacks of containers.

Patrick sighed and let his shoulders relax. He shook his head to try and chase away some of the tunnel vision, then knelt beside the beaten man at his feet. His eyes were open and blinking, but he still seemed out of it. Patrick checked the man’s pulse and then stroked his hair, checking for bloody wet spots and trying to provide any comfort he could.

“Stay still, all right?” he whispered. “Help’s coming.”

The man didn’t seem to understand. He scrambled to his feet, swayed but stayed upright, and touched the back of his head.

Patrick took in the frightened expression, the slouched posture, and the defiant eyes and reassessed the situation. This was no man but a teenage boy. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and a pair of fraying jeans, with long, sleek black hair. In the dawn glow, his cheeks looked hollow, and Patrick could see most of his ribs through the tight fabric of the T-shirt. His lips were so dry they were cracked and scabbed.

“Hey, sit still. You’ve got a nasty bump on the head,” Patrick tried.

The boy stared at him and shook his head.

“No English, huh?” He held up both of his hands, trying to reassure the boy he was a friend. “That’s okay, we’ll get you help.”

Police cars and two Port Authority golf carts with security guards stopped around them. Patrick listened to the sound of boots hitting concrete. Four uniformed officers surrounded him. Two of them had their guns drawn.

“You want to tell us what’s going on?” one of them asked.

The boy scrambled toward the police officers, pointing at Patrick and shouting something in a language Patrick couldn’t even identify.

“All right, hands on your head!” one of them shouted, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “Down on the ground!”

Patrick wasn’t stupid enough to argue, especially since not doing what they said would just mean they’d waste more time before getting the kid to a doctor. He dropped to his knees and set his hands on the back of his head. He caught the sight of the boy’s worried face one more time before someone shoved him flat onto the ground, kneeling over his spine to make sure he stayed down. He cursed as he thought about his cell phone and the ever-increasing number of voice mails demanding he come pick up Jay.

It looked like they both had a long day ahead of them.

Chapter 2

K
EN
A
TKINS
stared at the stack of pages the whining fax machine kept spitting out. He’d added more paper, but the pages just kept slowly printing while the machine squealed.

He picked up the current stack of papers and added it to the ones he’d removed. The case file from New York was over a hundred pages. “No fucking way this kid is only fourteen.”

He opened up his own crisp new manila folder and double-checked Jayden Connelly’s birthday, then glanced at his booking photo again. The kid would be fifteen years old in a month. He looked like he was twelve. And he had an arrest and probation record that looked more like it belonged to a middle-aged convict than a kid.

His boss, Mary Anne, popped her head through the copy room door. “I figured you’d have gone to the detention center already.”

Ken glared at her, but the petite redhead just smiled at him.

“What’s all that?” she asked.

“New case file from last night. No parent or guardian has shown up to pick him up yet and no one is answering the number he gave for his dad, so I thought I’d call his old probation officer to get contact information for someone else who can take the kid. This is his probation and parole file from New York. Can you believe one kid did all this?”