Sweet Sanctuary (21 page)

He growled under his breath as he stomped back home. The itch beneath his skin tormented him, and he dug at his flesh with his chipped fingernails while he walked, his frustration growing with every step. Blamed kid. What'd gotten into him to take off like that? Didn't he know danger lurked in this neighborhood? Nicky would be like a lamb in a wolves' den with the rough
kids who lived around here. And all beat up and bloodied, no way Mrs. Bachman would pay full price for him.

His steps faltered as he envisioned Nicky covered in bruises, maybe lying hurt and alone somewhere. Something akin to protectiveness welled within him, and the feeling had nothing to do with losing money. He paused and examined his own thoughts. Had he grown attached to the kid? He released a derisive snort and forced his feet into motion. His need for morphine was muddling his brain. As soon as he steadied his system with his magic dust, he'd borrow—or steal—a lantern and go searching again. He'd find that boy if he had to turn over every stone between here and the county line.

He entered his building and pawed his way to the second floor, the lack of light making him dizzy. When he rounded the bend on the foyer, his gaze fell on a small lump in the hallway right outside his door. He squinted, trying to make out the shape in the shadows. Realization dawned, and within his chest his heart seemed to turn a somersault.

“Nicky?”

The lump shifted, Nicky's head lifting from his sunk-low pose. His white face nearly glowed in the gray hallway. “M-mister?”

Nic stumbled forward, anger mingling with relief in his mind. He grabbed Nicky's arm and tugged him to his feet. “Where you been, boy?”

Tears winked in the child's eyes. “I . . . I wanted to go home. I want Mama. But I couldn't find my way.”

Blowing out a mighty breath, Nic gave Nicky's skinny arm a shake and then released him. He fumbled for his key. “'Course you couldn't. We ain't anywhere near your old house. Plain stupid for you to even try to find it.”

Tears slipped down Nicky's cheeks. He began to whimper.

Nic unlocked the door and pushed Nicky inside. The little boy scuttled to the closest corner and sank down, burying his face in his teddy bear's stomach. Sobs wracked his little body. Nic stood just inside the door, staring at the child. An unfamiliar yearning—the desire to offer comfort—rolled through the back of his mind. But he didn't have any idea what to say. What to do.

The prickle of need pulled his attention from the distraught little boy in the corner. He strode to the kitchen table and opened the sack. In the bottom, below the pair of overripe bananas, his packet of magic dust beckoned. He'd see to himself. Satisfy the demons that clawed at his flesh. And tomorrow he'd bundle the kid in his pickup and take him to the Bachmans. No more delays. He had no place in his life for a child. Especially not Eleanor's child. Because Eleanor's child deserved more than he could give.

25

M
icah listened with interest as Lydia faced her father across the kitchen table where she, Micah, and Allan Eldredge sipped Postum while Lavinia washed dishes.

“Father, I'm not asking for your ration coupons. I'm asking for the use of your car until mine is available again.”

“But the mechanic indicated it might be several days before the Hudson is operational.” Allan flicked a frown in Lavinia's direction. “Is there any of that pie left? I'd like a piece to go with my Postum.”

Without a word, Lavinia crossed to the refrigerator and removed a small plate holding the remaining slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie. Micah held back the question hovering on the end of his tongue. How could Allan Eldredge behave as if nothing were amiss? Lavinia had prepared a fine meal, but no one had an appetite except Allan. He'd consumed every bit of his pork roast, peas, carrots, and potatoes, seemingly oblivious to the cloud of worry hanging over the table. His unconcerned, uncooperative attitude puzzled Micah. Didn't he care at all about the child he'd previously claimed as his grandson?

Lydia put her hand over her father's wrist, preventing him
from stabbing a fork into the pie. “Do you understand we spotted Nic today? We found the area of town in which he apparently lives. Nicky could very well be there with him, and—”

Allan jerked his hand free and rose at the same time, sending his chair clattering to the floor. Fury blazed in his eyes. “You honestly believe the man still has Nicky? He's an addict, Lydia. He'd sell his own soul to feed his repugnant habit. The very day he carted Nicky out of this house, he disposed of him the same way any of us would dispose of an unwanted litter of kittens. The boy is gone, and I will not have you encouraging me to cling to a hope that doesn't exist!”

Lydia pushed to her feet, reaching her hand toward her father. “Father, I—”

He slapped her hand aside. “No! I will not listen to another word. Nicky is dead to us, Lydia. It's best for all of us to accept it, bury him in our minds, and move on.” He stomped out of the room and then his feet pounded on the stairs. Moments later a door slammed overhead.

Lydia turned slowly toward her mother, who looked at the ceiling with her lips pursed tight. “Should I . . . ?”

Lavinia shook her head. “Let him be. I'll go up in a bit and talk to him.” Her sympathetic gaze rested on Lydia's face. “He's proud. Too proud to admit he was wrong the day Nic came and asked for a job. He blames himself.”

Lydia's expression hardened. “He should.”

Lavinia sighed. “Yes. But we can't change what's past.” She angled her head to look at Micah. “Dr. Hatcher, you don't have an emotional investment in this situation, which allows you to look at things more logically. May I ask you a question?”

Micah could have argued with her assumption he had no emotional investment. His heart ached for Nicky, for Lydia, and even for the stubborn man who sealed himself away from
everyone upstairs out of his heavy burden of guilt. But instead, he said, “Of course.”

Unshed tears brightened the older woman's eyes. “Do you really believe there's a chance Nic hasn't . . . disposed of Nicky in some reprehensible manner?”

Micah wouldn't offer false hope, but he would answer honestly. “When Lydia and I spotted Pankin today, he was driving his dilapidated truck into a very unsavory neighborhood. My gut tells me if he'd sold Nicky, he'd be long gone. Or at least have used the money to purchase a decent automobile or a better apartment.” He swallowed, his heart pounding in trepidation. “We can't know for sure without talking to him, but I do believe there's still reason to hope.”

Lavinia offered a thoughtful nod, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her movements so slow Micah almost thought he imagined them, she turned to face her daughter. “Lydia, you know I never go against your father's wishes.” Her whisper held evidence of deep turmoil. “But my heart is breaking. And even though he won't admit it, so is his. We have to keep seeking, no matter what he says.” She gripped Lydia's hand and looked at Micah. “Take Allan's car and go tonight. Find Nic. Find Nicky. Allan stores a loaded pistol under the driver's seat. Do whatever you must to bring my grandson home again.” She scurried for the stairway.

Lydia watched her mother depart, then turned to Micah. Her face was white, but her eyes held determination. “Are you ready?”

Micah's pulse galloped. “You bet,” he said. Then he followed Lydia out the back door, a prayer rising from his heart.
Lord, guide us and keep us
—
all of us, including Nic
—
safe.

“Look . . . isn't that Nic's truck?” Micah's voice was croaky but carried a note of excitement.

Lydia gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, searching the shadows in the direction Micah had pointed. The car's hooded headlights showed trash-strewn streets, weed-speckled yards, and run-down apartments. As much as she wanted to find Nicky, she almost hoped Micah was wrong about the truck. The idea of Nicky being trapped in such a dismal place made her shudder.

She rolled to a stop next to the truck, and recognition exploded in her mind. “It's his. So this is it.” Immediately, within her stomach, butterflies whirled into a wild dance of both apprehension and anticipation. “I'll park, and we'll go in.”

A trio of rough-looking young men leaned against a nearby building, scowling in Lydia's direction as she pulled up to the curb. She gulped. “Do you think it's safe to get out?”

“We'll be all right. Grab the flashlight, will you?”

Lydia retrieved the battery-operated Streamlight her father kept in the glove box while Micah pawed under the driver's seat. She pushed the switch on the brass flashlight and its beam fell on the pistol's barrel as he slipped the weapon into his waistband. A band of fear wrapped around Lydia's chest, impeding her breathing. How she prayed he'd have no need to utilize the pistol.

He twisted the door handle. “All right. Let's go.”

Micah caught her hand when she rounded the Studebaker's hood. Shivers ran like spiders up and down her spine. Clinging tight to Micah's hand, she aimed the flashlight's beam forward and kept one eye on the young men. They fell silent and stared at her and Micah, but none of them approached. Relieved, she watched her feet as Micah guided her toward the apartment building closest to Nic's truck.

The three risers leading to a square concrete stoop hosted
a jagged crack climbing from bottom to top, its erratic pattern reminding Lydia of the part a little girl might make in her doll's hair. Crumpled newspapers and broken bottles hugged the foundation of the building in lieu of flowers or bushes. Faded red bricks and crumbling mortar formed the outside façade, and paint-chipped shutters hung haphazardly from window casings. The entire structure held a weary, hapless appearance that created an ache in the center of Lydia's chest.

She glanced at Micah. “This is where my Nicky lives?”

Micah's lips formed a grim line. “He won't be here for long.”

They climbed the steps, one on either side of the crack, and entered the dark, foul-smelling building. Lydia bounced the flashlight beam across the walls, illuminating numbers and slots holding little paper cards with names scrawled in faded black ink on every door. She nearly sighed in relief. If those names indicated each apartment's occupant, they'd be able to locate the one belonging to Nic without knocking on doors.

After checking all eight doors on the first floor, Micah nudged Lydia to the stairs. Their feet moved in unison, the light slap of their soles on the wooden risers echoing in the narrow staircase. A slight turn awaited at the top, and Lydia aimed the flashlight's beam at the first door. Before she could read the name, however, a familiar voice, raised in anger, erupted from behind the second door and sent her stomach into spasms of fear.

“Listen, boy, I've had it. Stop that snivelin' an' let me sleep!”

Her heart lodged in her throat. Nic was such an intimidating man, and to holler so—Nicky must be terrified. But at least she knew Nicky was still with his father.

She thrust the flashlight at Micah and darted on quivering legs to the door bearing the little card that read “Pankin.” Unconcerned about other occupants in the building, she banged her fist against the unpainted wood as hard as she could. The
bam! bam! bam! bam! bam!
reverberated in the hallway, and up and down the corridor mutters rose from behind closed doors.

One bellowed above the others. “Go away!” Nic's voice again, somewhat slurred. Was he drunk? Sobs also carried from the apartment. Fear made Lydia queasy, and she pounded a second time as Micah stepped up behind her, his warm palm on the small of her back a reassuring pressure. Footsteps thumped, drawing near. Then the door swung wide.

Nic, wild-eyed and red-faced, gripped the doorjamb and glared out at them. When his gaze fell on Lydia, he shook his head and grimaced. “
You.
Shoulda known you'd show up.”

“Where's Nicky?” Lydia nearly danced in place, eagerness to hold her son making her light-headed. “Is he all right?”

Nic growled. “Yeah, yeah, he's fine. Stubborn cuss. Won't eat nothin'. But he's got enough wherewithal to keep me awake with his
waah-waah.
All he does is cry.”

The thought of her ever-happy little boy reduced to constant tears crushed what was left of Lydia's injured heart. Tears clouded her vision. “May I see him?”

Nic grimaced again, sweat beading across his forehead. “Might as well. Maybe you can shut him up. He doesn't listen to me.” He stepped aside and allowed Lydia and Micah to enter.

Lydia's gaze swept the gloomy, grimy room. Nicky crouched on a tattered, bare mattress in the corner. He sat with his knees pulled under his chin and his hands covering his ears, his eyes squeezed tight. His tear-stained face appeared chalk-white in the dim light. She rushed over and knelt before him. Her voice broke as she touched his arm. “Nicky?”

The little boy cracked open one eye, then both eyes flew wide and he catapulted into her arms. “Mama! I prayed to Jesus to bring you an' He did it!”

From the middle of the room, Nic stood with his weight on
one hip, his expression dour. “All that kid does is whimper an' talk to Jesus. Startin' to think he's half-witted.” The muscle in his left cheek twitched.

“This child is far from half-witted, Nic.” Lydia sat on the mattress and cradled Nicky. He clung to her as though he'd never let go. She swallowed her agony and addressed Nic. “He needs care beyond what you're giving. You can't keep a child locked up in a room like this and expect him to be happy.” Her stomach writhed in disgust at the stained furniture, the food rotting on the counter, and the trash littering the scuffed wood floor. “You can't holler at him and expect him to listen. How would you like to be treated that way?”

“Well, I'm his daddy!” Nic staggered across the room and pointed an accusing finger at Nicky, who burrowed deeper into Lydia's neck. “I don't much care for bein' treated like he hates me!”

Micah stepped between Nic and Lydia, his hand resting on the handle of the pistol. He spoke in a reasonable tone. “We all realize you are Nicky's . . . daddy.” It appeared to take some effort for Micah to say the word. “But since Nicky has grown up not knowing you, it will take some time for him to accept that relationship. He can't know you any better than you know him right now.”

Nic turned his narrowed gaze on Micah. “Who're you?”

Micah smiled and held out his hand as if he were at a social event making the rounds. “I'm Micah Hatcher, a friend of Lydia and Nicky's. It's nice to meet you.”

Nic looked at the hand, hesitated, then finally gave it two pumps before pulling away. He turned back to Lydia, swaying slightly with the motion. “Kid's gonna hafta accept it. First, I figured on stickin' him with a family. I got connections.” He smiled, but it looked more like a sneer. “Had folks interested—willin'
to give me five thousand dollars to adopt him.” He jammed his open hand in the air, wonder blooming across his face. “Five thousand dollars. Can you believe that? Coulda got myself outta this dump and into somethin' nice with that kind of money.”