Warning Signs (Love Inspired Suspense) (14 page)

Owen dragged a hand down his face. Would he decide not to answer her? Miriam stepped closer and gently took his hand away from his face. She implored him in silence, patting his hand to urge him to speak to her.

Owen squeezed her hand, then withdrew to sign. “I caused Cole’s deafness, and I caused my wife’s death. Six years ago I took her and Cole out on a boat that I knew hadn’t passed safety inspections. It needed new bulbs, among other things, but I took it out anyway. I thought it was no big deal. I knew what I was doing and where I was going, so who cared? Except I wasn’t counting on a storm coming down on us. It blew us way off course, and it took hours to get back. By then it was dark.” Owen’s hands began to shake. He squeezed his fists tightly, halting him from going further.

Miriam covered his quaking fists, praying for God to help Owen in his darkness. She closed her eyes and silently called on her Father to lend His righteous right hand to Owen’s life.

After a few minutes, Owen’s hands calmed and Miriam opened her eyes. She let go of his hands so he could continue.

“I saw a boat coming at us. It had its lights on. I flashed mine, but they didn’t work. I could see the other boat, but they couldn’t see me. I tried to steer out of the way, but they were too close and...we collided.” Owen dropped down on the chair’s edge, cradling the sides of his head with his hands for a few moments. “Rebecca paid for my arrogance and stupidity with her life. Cole paid with his hearing after nearly drowning. And I walked away.” His stiff face rose defiantly to her. “That’s why Cole’s deafness pains me. It’s my fault. All my fault.”

Miriam shook her head and dropped to her knees in front of him. Their foreheads touched, and Miriam searched the dark eyes that had hidden his secret for six years. A secret that ate at him and kept him from a relationship with his son—and most likely from God, too.

Miriam breathed deeply, knowing Owen didn’t reject his son because he was deaf after all. He just didn’t believe he was worthy of a relationship with Cole because of his actions.

Miriam pulled back a few inches. Just enough to tell him the truth. “I’m so sorry you’ve gone through this, but Cole doesn’t blame you.”

“He should hate me,” Owen signed viciously.

“He will if you keep rejecting him. Trust me.” Miriam placed her hand over her heart for a few beats. “He will go through his life believing you are rejecting him because he is deaf.”

Owen’s expression became quizzical. He searched her face before settling on her eyes. His hand rose to her cheek and he rubbed a thumb gently down the side of her face. “I don’t deserve this,” he said. She read his lips clearly. He lifted his hands and signed, “It should have been me. I deserve to die. A life for a life.”

Miriam shook her head adamantly and signed, “No! Christ gave His life so all our debts are paid. He bled so you don’t have to. It’s done. Ask for forgiveness, and you will be forgiven. Accept this gift from God. Accept God.”

Owen moved away from her. A mixture of emotions played across his face—desire to believe her, old guilt to stop him. Owen retreated to the darkness of his soul. It appeared he didn’t believe in God’s forgiving love.

But Miriam could always count on God to find her, even in the darkest of places. No place was too dark for Him. He saw her clearly as though it was the brightest of days. He’d found her in the dark before, and He would find Owen in his dark place, too.

“God’s waiting for you to hear Him. He wants to help you understand, but you’ve tuned His voice out.”

“What do you know about His voice?”

“He speaks my language. Listen to Him, Owen. He will speak yours, too. And He will help you escape the darkness you are in. He’s done it for me.”

“Really? And when you get sent to jail, is He going to help you escape then, too? Because you’re in a heap of trouble right now, and I don’t see Him showing up to clear your name or to save you from someone who wants you dead.”

She expelled a breath and scooted back. “Whatever happens, I will trust God to strengthen me and guide me through it. He’s made that promise—to both of us. Try to listen to the message He has for you. That’s all I’m asking.” She rested her hand on her chest.

“The only thing I want to hear right now is Frank Thibodaux’s take on the current circumstances.” He stood and grabbed the handcuffs.

“You have to handcuff me again?” she signed her question with slumped shoulders.

He nodded his answer. “I have to call in to a judge I know on the mainland for an ROR. A release on your own recognizance. But until then, I have to handcuff you if I leave. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know it’s not your doing,” she signed, then went back to her bed and gave him her right hand willingly. But instead of taking it, Owen pointed to her left.

At her confusion, he signed, “It’s bad enough Wes has taken away your freedom. I won’t let him take away your voice, too.”

Heat flushed Miriam’s skin to the point she barely felt the cold metal cinch her wrist. Her mind exploded in an uproar even she could hear. A flux of sensation at this man’s understanding coursed through her veins, heading straight to her heart.

Miriam absorbed the presence of the cuff weighing down her left hand, locking her to her bed again. But that wasn’t the weight that quieted her hands.

She thought it might be an overwhelming feeling of love, but she had to be mistaken. She had to be confusing love with gratitude. Owen’s thoughtful gesture to leave her right hand free so she could speak endeared him to her, but that didn’t mean she wanted to jump off the cliff of love.

It couldn’t be love. That was one ledge she had to talk herself off. And yet, somewhere deep inside, she could already feel herself beginning to fall.

TEN

T
he classy, subdued environment of the Blue Lobster caught Owen by surprise. After his robust experience at the Underground Küchen, he expected the dinner hour on the opposite end of the boardwalk to be a similar experience.

“Table for one?” A dark-haired woman approached him with a menu. Her white blouse and black pants were creased with precision to all their refined points and lines. She floated by tables with fine linens and crystal flutes.

No flouncy aprons would be found in this high-end establishment. An establishment that most likely cost a pretty penny to run and might need to be subsidized with something on the side.

Like illegal drug trafficking.

“Yes, it’s only me,” Owen answered the waitress. “I’m new to the island and haven’t made many friends yet.”

“Oh, you must be the new teacher.” She led him to a table by the bay window. The setting sun’s rays sparkled on the overturned glasses.

In his jeans and T-shirt, he felt a little underdressed to be on display. So much for blending in. “Actually, do you have something in the back? A little more private?” he asked.

“Um...” The young woman peered over her shoulder. “There’s a meeting going on in the back room, but I suppose I could seat you at the back wall. Would that be better?”

“That would be perfect.” Especially if it put him within hearing distance of that meeting.

She led the way and stopped right outside a room where a group of men sat around a table. “I should tell you that you’ll be alone back here. If you’re looking to make friends that might be hard to do in this spot.” She bit her lower lip, looking as though she had more to say.

“And?” Owen coaxed her.

She flashed a tentative smile. “Well, I have a break coming. I could sit and keep you company.”

Owen hesitated in giving his normal outright refusal he used when a woman clued him in on her interest. Typically, he hated leading someone on, but in this instance, he weighed the costs versus the benefits. This woman might have some pertinent information on the owner that he could draw out of her with little to no effort.

“I’m Rachelle, by the way. Rachelle Thibodaux. My grandfather owns the place,” she willingly offered, proving his point already. “So I won’t get fired, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, I really would hate to get you into any trouble. Jobs are hard to come by.” He took his seat and pushed the glass away.

“Is that why you came to the island?” She placed an opened menu down in front of him. “The job market tough in... I’m sorry—where did you say you were from?”

Owen held her coy gaze. The polished young woman had just turned the tables on him. It seemed Frank Thibodaux had himself a real family-oriented enterprise.

Owen thought back to Ben Thibodaux’s statement.
“I need to graduate and get off this island. Otherwise, I won’t have anything to look forward to but a life of doing someone else’s bidding.”
Judging by the stark fear Owen had seen in Ben’s eyes that day when asked, “Whose bidding?”...the boy feared someone. Was it his grandfather?

“I came in from the border,” Owen vaguely answered Rachelle’s question about where he was from. “And as much as I would like the pleasure of your company tonight, it’s kind of a working dinner for me.”

“Oh, of course.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m actually not surprised. I’ve heard the new principal’s a slave driver.”

An image of Miriam’s elegantly expressive face materialized. She sure was getting under his skin, and not because she was a slave driver. “Ms. Hunter’s actually very nice.” If only these people would give Miriam a few moments. They would see the kindness in her. They would see a heart filled with love and compassion, especially for their children. “Stepping Stones should get to know her better before making a judgment.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’s... I don’t know, it’s hard to communicate with her, I guess. I feel like she won’t understand, so why bother?”

“You bother because she’s a person. She wants to belong like everyone else. She has feelings that get hurt like everyone else, too. If you traveled to another country and didn’t speak the language, would that mean you were less of a person than the natives?”

“No, but I would try to learn the language.”

“Well, that’s great if you can hear it.”

Rachelle dropped her gaze to her hands. “I guess that’s something to think about.”

“And while you’re thinking, learning a few signs won’t hurt. Might even help break the ice with Ms. Hunter.”

Rachelle shot a quick look into the room before whispering, “Do you know any?”

Owen came to an impasse. If he admitted to knowing sign language, he would blow his cover. The buzz would go out as fast as a flock of seagulls and could alert the wrong people, sending them packing. If that happened, there would be no way to clear Miriam’s name.

He couldn’t let her take the fall for these crimes, but he also couldn’t miss this opportunity to help her find her place among the islanders.

Miriam hadn’t told him the particulars of her childhood, but Owen got the gist that she still had a lot of pain deep inside her. And not belonging on this island cut her even deeper.

Owen made his decision. Her pain won out. If he chose his words carefully, he could continue to clear her name while building a few bridges for her. “I know a bit of sign language that could help you at least say ‘hi’ and ‘I want to be friends.’ Do you want to try? You might find it fun.”

Rachelle stepped closer, blocking Owen’s view of the inhabitants in the room. Blocking Owen’s view or blocking the inhabitants’ view? He wasn’t so sure if Rachelle was a complete devotee to the Thibodaux family’s cause, but he was grateful for her covering.

Owen slowly signed, “Hi, I’m Rachelle. I want to be friends.”

She smiled as she tried the signs and laughed at her confusion and mess-ups, but she didn’t give up and tried again. She laughed some more. “I sure hope Ms. Hunter’s forgiving.”

Rachelle’s words struck him. Miriam’s gray eyes came to mind. “Amazingly so,” Owen confirmed with a tightening throat.

“What are you laughing about, Rachelle?” a deep baritone called from the doorway to the room.

“Oh, Uncle Jerome, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was chatting with the new teacher.” She shifted to reveal Owen’s presence.

“Owen! Buddy! How you doing?” Jerome stepped to the table and turned a chair to straddle it.

The image felt abrasive in such a refined atmosphere. It must irk Frank to have a son so crude. No wonder he was at the Underground Küchen the other day. He probably wasn’t allowed to eat here.

“Fine. I thought I’d check out the competition for dinner tonight.” Owen said. “I hope Rachelle and I didn’t interrupt anything too important.”

“Nah.” Jerome waved the hand with the fat black-and-gold ring at Owen. “My dad got wind of some problems with the new principal and he called a family meeting.” He thumbed at Rachelle to move along, which she did.

“There’s a problem with my boss?” Owen acted surprised as he watched Rachelle go behind the bar. He could see her practicing her letters for her name and he smiled within.

“Yeah, it seems she’s involved with the growing drug problem.”

“You’re kidding. I don’t believe it. Ms. Hunter? Are you sure?” Owen stretched back on his chair’s hind legs. The quality of the furniture told him it would hold him as he played the part of Jerome’s equal.

“Mightily.” Jerome leaned in and whispered behind the back of his hand. “Caught red-handed with half a mil.”

Owen bulged out his eyes for effect, while he wondered how Jerome would have come by such information—unless he was the owner of the product. Owen brought his legs down slowly and whispered, “Is that a lot of money?”

“Is that a lot?” Jerome threw his head back and chuckled. “Boy, you gotta get your head out of those fancy books. Yeah, it’s a lot.”

“Will someone come looking for their money soon?”

A pasty hue broke out on Jerome’s neck and cheeks. Perhaps Jerome experienced a little anxiety over the idea of collection day encroaching.

Jerome bolted out of his chair before Owen could determine. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the family.”

The table in the back room held five men and a teenager. Owen zeroed in on the one familiar face: Ben Thibodaux. He sat next to the patriarch, whose eyes were cast down to avoid Owen’s as though he was a cruise liner and Owen was one of the stepping stones.

“Hey,” Jerome said. “This is Owen Matthews, the new teacher at the school.”

A man stood, leaner but older than Jerome. Gray hairs speckled his short black cut. His hand reached for Owen. “Hello, Mr. Matthews. Len speaks highly of you. I’m Alec, head of custodial engineering at the school.”

Right, the janitor that doesn’t like to be called a janitor,
Owen thought as he accepted Alec’s handshake. “Nice to meet you, and I’ll be sure to thank Len later, too. I was actually intrigued to learn about his not-so-secret passageway. Any of you ever been inside?”

He focused on the very old man sitting with his back to the wall, surrounded by his sons and grandsons. Owen felt guilty speculating if the man was packing a gun in his double-breasted suit. He did not look long for this world, with his yellowed, sunken face. He was obviously deathly ill. This very well could be his last meal.

But if Frank wasn’t packing, was Jerome or Alec? Or the other two men at the table?

Or worse, Ben?

Owen’s stomach rolled at the thought of this seventeen-year-old boy wielding a gun, but in his line of work, Owen had come up against kids who’d cut their teeth on guns. They were something to fear because to them, killing for the family was accepted as a part of everyday life.

“Yes, Mr. Matthews, I have been in Len’s passageway,” Frank spoke with a rattle, and Alec retook his seat. “They were supposedly carved out by pirates that inhabited the island long ago. A place to hide their plunder, as the stories go. I also have a passageway of my own, but it was boarded up years ago after a little problem occurred.” The old man’s jowls swayed as he glanced at Jerome. “I received word the tunnel was being used inappropriately. So, I’m sorry if you were looking for a tour of mine, because that’s not going to be possible at this time.”

Owen wasn’t looking for a tour, but the fact that Frank also had a passageway made him question if the Hunter home had one, too. He couldn’t see how Hans would have been the odd man out of the three without one.

And if there was one, then Owen would have his alternative route for getting the drugs in and the start of a case of defense for Miriam. The fact that his job wasn’t about searching for defensive strategies for people but rather for cases of guilt didn’t go unnoticed. He chalked it up to not wanting to put an innocent person behind bars, but the truth nipping at his heels said it was for an entirely different reason—that Miriam Hunter was coming to mean more to him than a case to solve.

“Can I be excused?” Ben asked his grandfather under his breath but loud enough to be heard by all.

“Is there a problem? Do you not get along with your new teacher?” Frank asked and lifted a gnarled hand in Owen’s direction. Owen thought if the man was carrying a gun, it would be because of a death wish. Owen would be able to get ten shots off before the old man even lifted his gun.

“No,” Ben mumbled. “I have homework to do.”

Frank nodded once, and the boy pushed away from the table for a clean retreat.

“Hey, Ben.” Owen stopped him at the back exit. “Can I speak with you for second? I actually wanted to ask you about the lesson we were discussing this week. Do you mind?”

“Does he mind?” Jerome’s voice broke the silence. “Owen, I would be much obliged if you could set my son on the right track. Any little bit you can offer to get him to graduation day would put me forever in your debt.”

Ben jammed his hands deep into his black jeans pockets. “Sure, whatever.” He exited through the back door.

Owen addressed the group as he followed Ben out. “Sorry I have to cut out so quickly, but I don’t want to miss this opportunity to help Ben. I don’t get to talk with him at school much.”

“Not a prob, Owen,” Jerome assured him. “He’s a tough one to crack. I appreciate you wanting to help. I wish other teachers had cared as much as you. Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a troublemaker.”

The door slammed on Jerome’s words.

Owen searched through the dark night for the man’s son. Lamps lit the boardwalk, casting dark shadows of hiding spaces every ten feet. Ben could be standing in any one of them or none at all. He could have snuck into an alley and disappeared.

After witnessing the Thibodaux family gathering, Owen felt Ben was the leak he needed to crack this case.

Except now he was gone.

“What do you want?” Ben’s voice spoke from behind him. Owen whipped around to find the boy hidden on the side of the building.

Owen stepped closer. “I want to help you.”

“Help me? You’re no teacher. You can’t help me.”

“Why do you think I’m not a teacher?”

“I saw you signing. You’re a cop, aren’t you? Sent here to work with the principal to investigate who’s pushing the drugs, right?”

Owen judged how much truth to share. He needed to build trust with Ben, and lying would push him further away. “Regardless of what I am, I do want to help you, whether it is in the classroom or out. I mean that.”

“You want to help me? Make her leave. If she just went away, then none of this would have to happen.” Ben slipped into the darkness.

“Wait! Ben! What has to happen?” Owen rushed forward.

Ben emerged under the lamplight. “Tell me one thing,
Teacher.
How do I sign, ‘I’m sorry’?”

Stumped, Owen demonstrated the simple sign of a circling fist at chest level. He wondered when Ben planned to use the sign—and why. Was something coming that he would need Miriam’s forgiveness for?

“That’s it?” Ben scoffed. “It seems like asking for forgiveness should be harder than a circling fist. You should have to bleed.” With that he stepped back and fused with the darkness again. This time, he didn’t reappear.