Chapter Thirteen
M olly Caitens’ hand trembled a little as she handed over the small pencil sketch. That it had been executed with great care was painfully obvious in the delicate shading and the smudged places where lines had been erased. The tiny face was perfect, the eyes looking straight out of the page, the rosebud lips slightly parted.
“This is Christine.” Molly’s voice cut through Ricky’s stunned brain. He looked up in surprise. Molly patted his hand. “Not her, I mean, but the image of Christine when she was born.”
His stomach rumbled but he ignored it.
“See that dimple in her chin? And those long lashes?”
Ricky squinted. Yes, the baby did have a tiny mark on her chin, and the artist had taken care to highlight the thickly lashed eyes. His own eyes felt scratchy and sore.
He tried not to hurry them. Tom and Molly were already shell shocked, tremulous with emotion. Here was a tiny piece of their own beloved, lost child.
Tom cleared his throat. “Turn it over, son.”
Ricky reached out, suddenly reluctant to take this next step, but his hand obeyed his higher brain.
The other side of the paper was covered by Chrissie’s light pencil scrawl.
Baby Lioba. Child of Ricky and Chrissie.
Nothing gold can stay.
“That’s Robert Frost. The poet. You knew Christine was an English Literature major?”
Tom was almost speaking to himself, but Ricky nodded. His throat was thick with memory. Chrissie had adored Frost’s poem, captivated by the poignant imagery of loss and rebirth.
He stared at the words. This was it, the evidence he had been seeking. But was it enough? Enough to convince the legal gatekeepers to add his name to the child’s birth certificate, and to then begin the tortuous process of unwinding the tangle of rights, responsibilities and permissions which made up the adoption process?
No .
He shook his head. The logical part of his brain knew immediately that no sane bureaucrat would even consider such a thing, even if it were possible, which Ricky doubted. And no reasonable biological parent would dream of ripping their child away from a family unless they were convinced that the child was in danger.
Lioba .
The best he could hope for was that one day she would come looking for him. Those steel bands around his chest tightened, and he struggled to fill his lungs with oxygen.
“I just need to know that she’s...okay. That she’s loved and cared for.” Ricky’s words were a low growl of pain.
“I understand. But what’s been done cannot be undone, you must see that,” said Molly gently. “It hurts us that our daughter did not turn to her parents in what must have been a terrible time. And we can’t imagine how you feel Ricky.”
He could only nod. His own parents had said almost the exact thing. Shock, joy, sadness, and finally acceptance.
Grief rose in Ricky’s throat, helpless and raw, and he wondered if anything could ever fill the aching void in his heart.
Molly’s hand was dry and cool on his arm. “Christine made this decision, and in my heart I know that she did what she thought was best for her baby. Now we must trust that the authorities found her a new family who will keep her safe.”
Ricky’s hands curled into fists. “Forgive me if I don’t share your confidence, Molly. In my line of work, I see...” He paused. “I see that these things don’t always go to plan.”
Molly smiled. Her eyes swam with tears. “I know that, Ricky. Our daughter was supposed to grow up and pursue her dreams. That includes the right to make the wrong choices.”
Tom laid his hand over Molly’s, and somehow the warm weight on his arm was itself a comfort to Ricky. And that scent, of soap and talc and maple syrup muffins, wrapped around him like a hug.
Molly threw her husband a smile full of love. Ricky’s mind flashed immediately to Jodi. And in the midst of his pain, he wished that he had told her. That he had shared this secret, burning inside him for so long, with the one person who might have helped to heal his broken heart.
He had made himself an island, and that was no way for a man to live.
Molly’s voice was soft. “I truly believe that God held our child in the palm of his hand, even when things didn’t go to plan. Chrissie was never lost, and neither is Lioba. We just don’t know where that baby is right now.”
Ricky’s chest relaxed a fraction. He drew in a ragged lungful of air. His eyes, which he didn’t realize were closed, blinked open.
He slowly rose to his feet. He looked around at the small, neat apartment, at the pile of knitted beanies for the homeless shelter and the flyers for the food bank. At the packaged-up cookies and the pictures of foster children in remote, impoverished places.
Lives well lived in spite of the burden they carried. And enough grace to reach out to others without judgement.
There was a flurry of murmured farewells.
Ricky knew that this was not over for any of them. Would never be over.
“You keep in touch now Ricky. And we mean to see your folks as often as we can.”
Ricky smiled politely. Molly’s eyes turned serious.
“I mean it, son. We are all family now. And we aim to keep it that way.”
***
T here’s nothing quite like a cronut and a double strength cappuccino with extra chocolate for smoothing over an awkward moment, and that’s what Ricky was depending on when he steered Jodi towards Bean or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”
Jodi recited the words first memorized as a child. Her fuzzy, sleep-deprived brain cleared.
She would check into the office first, set some tasks for Dougie, and catch up with May on urgent issues. On the way in she would call Hattie.
And then she would exercise her constitutional rights and head for the town hall. Granted, she was unlikely to be able to capture a photo of the boys in the back seat of a police car, but she sure wasn’t going to leave without alerting the world to their virtual arrest.
Ricky (here her heart gave a flutter, but she womanfully ignored it) had warned her that Leroy Browning would scream bloody murder if the Acting Editor of The Temple Mountain Monitor went anywhere near his office.
“Stuff that,” said Jodi out loud. “We are sounding out the trumpet that shall never call retreat...” she sang loudly.
She checked her reflection in the hall stand mirror. Her eyes, deftly enhanced with mascara, shadow (and that dab of concealer), were luminous against her skin. The severe ponytail enhanced the delicate structure of her face and the light orange sheen of her lips.
Cool, unruffled. There would be no awkward silences if she happened to see Ricky, no misty eyes betraying an accelerated heartbeat, and definitely no girlish blushes suggesting that she had ever imagined what he might look like under that mud-brown uniform.
Her phone buzzed. Ricky’s name popped up.
“Hi,” she said, glad it wasn’t Facetime and that he couldn’t see the goofy smile she quickly wiped off her face.
A second passed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.
“Bad news,” he said briefly. “Silas just called. The boys didn’t come down to breakfast this morning, and Hattie went up, thinking she’d have to rouse them out of bed. They already knew what was happening today.”
There was another silence. Jodi tried to swallow. Images kaleidoscoped through her mind. A long dark night. Two young boys.
“The beds hadn’t been slept in. Josh and Judah have run away.”
“Last night,” whispered Jodi. “Sweet Jesus.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Silas called the police, of course, as well as child protection and every other county and state body that has a stake in foster services.” Ricky let out a huff of frustration. “Apparently, the twins have done a runner before. But not since they were placed with Hattie and Silas.”
“But where...?” Jodi shook her head, trying to move past the fog of anxiety.
“Police are concentrating their efforts on New York City. Truckers might have picked them up at the underpass near the freeway. It’s a well-known spot for catching a ride. They’re focusing on the area where the boys used to live before they were removed.”
Ricky’s voice was matter-of-fact but Jodi could sense his tension. “It’s what most runaways do,” he said tightly. “Straight back to the parent or parents who abused them.”
Anger, hot and heavy, rushed through Jodi. She found her voice again.
“I don’t believe that,” she said crisply. “Those boys were happy with the Beechams. I know it. And Silas, he said that they were afraid of their father, that they didn’t want to go back!”
She could almost hear Ricky’s shrug. “I agree with you, not that it makes any difference. But Chief Browning has already spoken with the police chief and the foster authorities, and everyone agrees that the boys must have fled because they were guilty and that they’ll turn up in one of their old haunts in some condemned building in the city.”
Another call buzzed on Jodi’s phone. Hattie, of course. Then Dougie. She stabbed at her phone to put them on hold.
“I’m coming with you.” The words popped out from nowhere. There was silence.
“Coming with me where?” asked Ricky in a careful voice.
“To find Josh and Judah of course. Because I know that you don’t believe that they’ve run back to New York. They are still in Temple Mountain.”
***
“M r. Sharp?” The voice on the other end was both pleasant and professional. “Harriet Worth here, responding to your email last week.”
There is rarely a good time to be interrupted on a Monday. Especially when all hell is breaking loose at work and when what is laughably referred to as one’s private life has just become public. Even more so when the caller is a lawyer.
(The only exception would be, for example, a call informing you that a distant relative who has achieved more than his or her allotment of four score plus years has left yours truly a generous endowment which can be enjoyed guilt-free. This was not such a call.)
Ricky was parked outside the rectory, waiting as agreed for Jodi to fly through her chores and meet him before going inside together.
The adoption lawyer had been quick getting back to him, but Ricky had no idea if this was a good or a bad sign.
It suddenly felt unbearably stuffy inside the car. He climbed out, zipping his coat one-handed. He strolled towards the copse of trees between the rectory and the soaring beauty of the old wooden church. The fecund odor of damp foliage hung in the air.
Ms. Worth’s voice was clear, precise.
“It sounds as though you have done your research on adoption law and establishing paternity, Mr. Sharp. You do understand that you are what we call, to put it bluntly, a father without rights in an adoption? In other words, the mother of the child chose to exercise her New York State Constitutional privacy right not to identify the birth father.”
Ricky grunted understanding. The numbness in his mind seemed to be spreading to his limbs. He stamped his feet into the soft mulch and began walking backwards and forwards like an anxious parent watching the curfew slip past.
Tick tock .
Time was running out. For the twins, wherever they were, and for any hope of finding his child.
The voice continued, dispassionately delivering the next blow.
“By law, if the birth father was not married to the birth mother, the birth father must take all steps possible, such as file for paternity or custody, and provide support for the birth mother and child, in order to be considered a consent father. And even if you had filed for paternity, you could not prevent an adoption because you effectively abandoned your child.”
“What?” barked Ricky. “I had no knowledge of the child’s existence! I would have been there, paid support, done everything I could...and I would have applied for custody in a heartbeat if I’d known Chrissie didn’t want the kid!”
His speed increased until he was striding back and forth along the path, trampling the leaves into the wet soil. The mud sucked at his leather boots, pushing them further towards ruination.
God, he thought bleakly. He ran his fingers through his hair, distracted and bewildered, even though the lawyer wasn’t telling him anything he did not already know.
He didn’t belong here. Not anymore. Best to chuck this whole mess, and the balls-up he had made of the firebug investigation, and head back to the city.
“I understand that, Mr. Sharp,” said the lawyer patiently. She was clearly used to emotional parents blurting out their rage and pain.
“Now, we can go to court, sure. But I wouldn’t be doing the right thing if I didn’t warn you that this is a costly and ultimately pointless path. The blunt truth is that if an unwed father is not listed on the birth certificate, he has no legal rights to the child. And getting your name on that certificate is no guarantee—”
Ricky stopped in front of a huge maple. The bare limbs reached out to the grey sky like a prayer. He placed a bare hand on the trunk, felt the rough bark under his skin.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I understand,” he whispered. Cleared his throat and tried again. “Send your invoice—”
The sigh from the other end was heartfelt. Ricky had a sudden glimpse into how tough life could be for any professional working in this heartbreaking area.
“No charge, Mr. Sharp. The first consultation is always free, while we talk about whether a client has a case.” Her voice was soft. “But don’t lose hope. The people who deal with adoptions are smart, caring people for the most part, and I should know, believe me. They check carefully before they place a child, and they don’t just walk away. And when your daughter turns eighteen, and she comes looking for her father, there’s a very good chance that she will find you through her birth mother’s family.”
Ricky cleared his throat. He thanked Ms. Worth as best he could and hung up. He leaned forward until his forehead was resting against the rough bark. Breathed, in and out. Absorbed the reality of the hard, ragged edges against his skin.
Now, for the first time since he had seen that simple sketch in Chrissie’s notebook and had known himself to be a father, Ricky understood that he was powerless. The barricades he had erected around his heart crumbled. He let the thoughts and images roll, letting in the pain.
He would not be there to make sure Lioba rode her bicycle safely on the sidewalk, that she laid down her head each night in a place of safety and brushed her teeth and had her vaccinations. There would be no watching with bated breath as she pushed herself away from the wall on her first pair of ice skates, and no paternal glare at young men turning up at the front door with flowers.
He could not stand between his child and evil or mischance.
His prayer was without words.
***
J odi flew up the front steps of the rectory before she spotted Ricky. He was immobile, forehead pressed against one of the large trees near the church. Tension flowed from the stiff curve of his neck and down his spine.
She turned, ready to rush down. But the sight of his solitary anguish froze any words in her mouth. Hugging herself against the damp breeze, Jodi forced herself to turn away.
The massive, weathered front door was closed. A curious silence settled over the house and the trees and the church, and Jodi felt herself adrift in a voiceless world; a world where she was only ever an observer.
A gust of wind caught the top branches of a tree overhanging the rambling house, scraping bare wood against the roof and sending a cascade of twigs over the eaves. The cold crept past her scarf and down her back and Jodi wondered if spring would ever come again.
“Hey.” Ricky’s voice behind her was low.
She spun around.
His long, serious face was pale, composed. But his eyes were dark with pain and Jodi reached forward and folded him wordlessly into her arms.
For a few precious seconds, she inhaled the warm strength of his body. His hard frame trembled against her, and she could feel his long slow breaths as he fought for composure. Without thinking, she stroked his back—long comforting strokes—until she felt him calm.
The tiny part of her brain that was still operating set up the usual warning blare.
She was too close, making herself too vulnerable. This complex, secretive, infuriating, and even damaged man had snuck past her defenses.
Because she loved him.
Joy zinged through every pore, immediately followed by panic.
“Let’s pick this up later,” Ricky whispered, his voice catching a little. His hand grazed her cheek. Jodi nodded and tried not to wonder exactly what picking things up would entail.
She stepped back. The mist cleared, and she remembered why they were here. Something bad had happened. Something which had rocked Ricky to the core.
She tried to control the quiver in her voice.
“Is there...bad news?”
He managed a reassuring smile. “The boys haven’t been found yet.”
Jodi’s brow wrinkled in confusion. Then what? Had he been fired, had his father taken a bad turn...?
Ricky gave a small shake of the head, clearly reading her mind. Instead of answering, he took her hand and led her up the steps. He rapped lightly on the door.
“I don’t think anyone is at home,” Jodi began.
“Silas is at home. Hattie has taken the little ones out for the day. Jaime is apparently taking the boys’ absence very badly, refusing food and not sleeping. Almost as bad as when they first got her. They’re hoping that a visit to one of the other mom’s houses and some TLC from Alma and Hattie might work.”
Ricky squeezed her hand briefly. The front door opened. Silas ushered them inside the cold, silent house. His face was grim. He led them to the study without a word and settled behind his desk.
“I assume you have no news,” Silas said flatly.
Jodi glanced from one man to another. A small muscle twitched on the side of Ricky’s jaw, and she realized she was finally seeing the real Lieutenant Ricky Sharp: not the dog-catcher or the kitchenhand or the guy giving tips on fire hazards.
The professional, whose body and mind were honed to react with precision and speed in a crisis. The guy who ran into the fire.
“As the Chief told you an hour ago, child safety services in New York have been alerted, and the missing child protocol has swung into action,” Ricky said crisply. “The Chief believes that, in spite of the existing threat from the boys’ father, we must take the risk of making their faces known to the public in order to prevent the higher risk of another and potentially more dangerous arson attack.” He paused. “And of course, these boys are vulnerable children. They need to be found.”
Anger balled inside Jodi, hot and fearful. Why were they sitting here talking, when Joshua and Judah were out there on their own in a hostile world?
Silas nodded. “You know that I don’t agree with that decision, nor do I accept the premise that the boys are dangerous in any way.” Jodi saw pain flash briefly across his eyes.
“Neither do I.” Ricky glanced at Jodi, as though remembering that he had invited a member of the media into this very private meeting. Whatever he saw there seemed to reassure him. “I’ve looked more closely at those earlier fires. The ones the boys admit to lighting. Nothing left to stick under a microscope of course, but here’s what I think.”
Silas gave an abrupt nod. His eyes were red from exhaustion.
Ricky continued. “They were typical mischief fires done by angry kids; they get mad at their teacher or want to show off. A lit match tossed in a bin. Dangerous of course, but the kid figures someone will arrive with a fire extinguisher in thirty seconds.”
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a couple of prints.
“The recent fires were started by more sophisticated means, using printer fluid I reckon—but using the same matchbooks that the boys had pinched in a deliberate attempt to frame them.”
Ricky laid the prints on the desk, and Jodi saw that they were close-ups of the charred remains from the shed.
“And then we have this. The fire that really rattled the cage. No bin this time, but an old wooden structure that could have gone up like a tinder box.”
Silas frowned. “And this is some of the stuff that got burned?” He reached for his glasses, which added an instant and endearing resemblance to Clark Kent. “Looks like the shed was full of all sorts of junk. Paint cans?”
Ricky nodded.
“Shit.” Silas winced.
“Yeah. Paint cans. Empty fortunately but a nasty combination. What else can you see?”
Silas huffed out a breath, clearly impatient to be off searching the highways and byways for his missing children. “Old sneakers, maybe couple of tools, my God I hope that’s not fertilizer...” He cocked his head. “Backpacks? Senior citizens planning on doing a runner?”
Jodi felt the prickle of goose bumps on her chest.
“Do you recognize any of those items?” Ricky’s voice was calm.
Silas frowned, squinted, and looked up in surprise. “Those look very much like the backpacks we got the boys for Christmas. Wandering Wolf. They begged for camping equipment, offered to help pay by doing extra chores. Apparently they needed them for some school trip next summer.”
Jodi cleared her throat. “So the question is, why were the boys’ prized possessions in the garden shed, along with some food and spare sneakers?”
“Because they were running away,” said Ricky.
“No!”
Ricky looked up, surprised by the preacher’s vehemence.
Silas was shaking his head. “It’s the boys’ stuff, yeah, but they weren’t running away. I don’t believe that for a second.” His eyes were chips of grey flint. “Joshua and Judah were creating a safe place. All the things they would need if their father ever found them in Temple Mountain. So there’s no way on God’s earth that they would burn that shed down.”