Читать книгу The Rain Sparrow - Линда Гуднайт, Линда Гуднайт - Страница 13
ОглавлениеLibraries raised me.
—Ray Bradbury
Hayden scanned the library, taking in the small computer bay, the cozy sections of brown vinyl couches and chairs, the study tables, and the rows and rows of books tidily divided into sections. Along the east wall, a rack of current magazines overlooked round tables littered with various newspapers.
With each breath, he drew in the redemptive smell of books. Places like this had saved his life.
At the circulation desk Hayden asked for Carrie. A tiny blonde librarian, after giving him a puzzled stare as if she couldn’t quite place him but knew she should, took off toward the rows of books. Apparently, Carrie hadn’t mentioned his presence at Peach Orchard Inn, and he couldn’t decide if he was grateful or wounded.
He liked his midnight barista. Had been intrigued by her. Had found an excuse to see her again.
While he waited, Hayden perused the new releases shelf, flipping through Mary Higgins Clark’s latest as he kept half an eye out for Carrie.
When she came into view, a quick kick deep in his gut caught him off guard. His glance drifted to her ankle, noting the bracelet she’d worn a few nights ago was there again above simple black flats. Even in his sleeplessness, he hadn’t imagined Carrie Riley’s fresh appeal. Dressed in black skinny slacks and a white button-down, she’d tucked her short dark hair behind pearl-studded ears.
She was like the library, neat and orderly.
“You looking for a cup of coffee?” Her mouth curved.
“Might be. You have a few minutes?”
“Not for coffee. Sorry.”
So was he.
“Another time, then.” He slid a hand into the pocket of his chinos. “I wondered about Brody. Did you get him home all right?”
A crease appeared between Carrie’s eyes. She motioned toward a round table nearby, and they sat down across from each other.
Hayden had an uncomfortable feeling about the kid, and he was seldom wrong in his character analyses. Whether fictional or real, he discerned people. Right now, he discerned trouble for Brody Thomson and concern in Carrie Riley.
Posture erect, the tidy librarian clasped her hands together on top of the table. Her fingernails were unpolished, unlike the pearl-pink toes from Friday night. She wore no jewelry on her slim fingers, either. Another point of interest he filed away.
“Brody acted very uncomfortable about me driving him home,” she said in her soft-as-rainwater voice. “He wanted me to drop him off in town. He said he’d rather walk.”
“You let him?”
“No. I insisted on driving him all the way to his house.” She shrugged, dark eyes widening. “I had a funny feeling.”
“As did I. Any sign of his father?”
“He came to the door. Brody was anxious for me to leave.”
An oily feeling curled in his belly. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“This may seem silly—” she glanced up at him and then back down, absently picking at the curled corner of the Knoxville News Sentinel “—but as I drove away, I tried to keep watch in my mirrors without being too obvious.”
“Not silly at all. See anything?”
“When I turned the corner, I thought I saw his father slap the side of his head.” She exhaled a little breath of frustration. “I’m not sure, though, and it might have been a friendly thing like dads do sometimes.”
“You mean like a welcome home, a love pat?”
“Exactly. My dad used to put my brother, Trey, in a headlock and they’d wrestle around. Guy stuff. That’s probably what I saw.” She nibbled her bottom lip.
“But you don’t think so?”
“Something’s not right, or Brody would have let us call his father that night. His dad was not out of town.”
“The kid lied.” He wasn’t surprised. No drowned rat of a boy refused to go home to dry clothes and a warm bed without good reason.
“I think so. I asked him directly and he sidestepped the question with a vague reply that was all but an admission.”
Hayden inhaled deeply and sat back in the chair.
Home was hell for some kids. A few were lucky enough to escape. He’d lied about a lot of things, too, usually to his mother but often to others. Lies he passed off as excuses. His mama was out of town. She was sick. He’d forgotten to ask her.
He swallowed back the intruding thoughts. They were discussing Brody, not him.
“I talked to Trey,” Carrie said. “He couldn’t recall any problems from that address, not since he’s been on the force.”
“Did he know anything about the kid’s father?”
“Basically common knowledge stuff and what Brody told me. Clint Thomson is employed at the Big Wave boat factory. He hangs out at Brannon’s bar on Second Street. No record of arrest except for a DUI a few years ago.”
“An alcoholic?”
“Or maybe a man who has a few beers after work and got caught once.”
“What about Brody’s mother?”
“She left before Trey came back to Honey Ridge, but I asked my mother. Brody’s mom, Penny, was the quiet type who didn’t socialize much. She didn’t even attend church, which is a social no-no in Honey Ridge. Mama didn’t recall anything about their divorce.”
“No close friends or job or anything?”
“I didn’t ask, but apparently not, because Mama, who basically knows everyone and his dog in Honey Ridge, was barely acquainted. Apparently, the breakup was one of those private things that happen. She was unhappy in her marriage and left.”
“But she left her son, too.”
“Sad, isn’t it? Maybe she thought Brody, being a boy, would be better off with his father. I’ve known couples who did that. Mama took custody of the girl. Daddy took the boy.”
“But wouldn’t she care if the old man is knocking him around? I wonder if he hears from her. If she knows things are rocky?”
“I think your writer’s brain is kicking into gear.”
“Meaning?”
“We don’t know if Brody is being mistreated, Hayden. Maybe he and his dad had a disagreement that night. Maybe he got in trouble at school and didn’t want to face the music at home. Kids do that.”
Hayden rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess that’s possible.”
His fertile mind did overreact at times and suspect trouble where none existed. That was how he got his story ideas. Experience had taught him that beneath every smile was a heartache. Behind every cloud was a tornado. Not that he’d mention a tornado to Carrie.
“When Trey was about that age, he got in trouble with Dad for something. I don’t remember what he’d done, but he ran away and hid in Grandpa’s barn all day.” She spread her hands. “And I can promise you, the Riley kids were not abused.”
All of what she said was true, but Hayden’s instincts, honed for survival, rarely let him down. “If he doesn’t complain and no one sees anything illegal going on, his dad could get away with hurting him.”
“He goes to school. His teachers would notice.”
Hayden didn’t smirk. He didn’t even react. Once in a great while a teacher noticed, but mostly not. Hayden knew better than anyone. Teachers were only human, and if a kid kept his mouth shut and wasn’t a class disturbance, no one noticed; no one asked the uncomfortable questions.
That was the problem with home situations. A stranger, even an interested one, couldn’t see what was happening behind closed doors. “Perhaps you’re right and it’s nothing serious.”
For all her reasoning to the contrary, the small frown between Carrie’s eyebrows said she still worried.
“Does he come into the library much?”
“Almost every day after school.”
Hayden glanced at his watch. “Which can’t be too long from now.”
“What if he does? How is that helpful?”
A muscle jerked below his eye. He reached up and rubbed as if he had an itch. A tic. A twitch. A mental hiccup in a man with crazy in his genetic code. “If something is happening to him at home, he’s safe here.”
Knowing the kid had a refuge, even for little while, brought Hayden a measure of peace.
“Tawny and I set up a cookie tray in the foyer for after school.” Carrie gestured toward the front of the library. “I think that may be his dinner.”
“Another reason to be concerned.”
“Maybe. But maybe I’m wrong. All of the kids, especially the older boys, gobble the cookies like hungry wolves.”
“Gut feelings count.” Especially his gut. She wouldn’t understand, and he certainly couldn’t explain.
“I care about kids, Hayden. If his home situation is bad—” she bowed her shoulders “—well, I want to be alert to any signs. He’s a nice little boy. Puts the books and magazines neatly back where they belong or brings them to the reshelf cart. Doesn’t turn down the page corners.”
“Librarians get testy about those page corners.” His lips quivered.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Defacing a perfectly wonderful book is a serious thing, especially when we have bookmarks at the desk. Free!”
Letting the grin slip through, he lifted both hands from the tabletop. “Won’t get an argument from me.”
Mr. Franks had taught him that people who respect themselves respect public property, too. This was after Hayden had carved his name on a bathroom stall. He’d never forgotten that lesson or how the event had begun the change that saved his life.
Carrie silently slid her chair back from the table and started to stand.
“If you need any help with your research, let me know.”
“Can you point me to archives of the town’s history?”
“Sure, but you can learn more, especially the colorful, gossipy stuff, from the good ol’ boys down at the Miniature Golf Café. You are guaranteed to get an earful any day of the week.”
“Would you be willing to come along and introduce me? I’ll buy your breakfast.”
Carrie tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. “The good ol’ boys have no trouble talking, but I understand what you’re saying. Someone to break the ice, so to speak.”
“Exactly. Tomorrow morning at eight?”
“I can’t tomorrow. We have an early staff meeting.”
“You pick the day.”
“I don’t work until ten on Thursdays.”
“Thursday it is. I’ll swing by and pick you up at eight.”
“I can meet you at the cafe.”
“You’re safe with me.” He grinned. “I only kill people in my books.”
She tilted her head, mouth pursed, amused. “You think I’m afraid to be alone with a man who devises ways to commit murder?”
“Are you?”
“You saved me from the tornado. That’s nearing hero status in my book.”
He laughed, flirting, enjoying her. “I’ll need your address.”
“I’ll write it down before you leave. Anything else I can help you with?”
Reluctant to lose her company, though not needing anything in particular, Hayden said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Tell me about the dark side of Honey Ridge. Every place has dirty little secrets. Unexplained deaths. Suicide pacts. Murders.”
“In my library?” She drew up straight, pretending insult though her brown eyes sparkled with humor.
“Perfect place to find an unsuspecting victim,” he said. “Her attention is riveted on a book. The villain sneaks up behind her and—” In pure melodrama, he slid a finger across his throat. “Murder in the Stacks.”
She grimaced. “How about Death by Dewey Decimal?”
“Hey, that’s not bad.” His mind started racing with the possibilities. “A serial killer. I’m good at those.”
“Don’t you dare! There are plenty of places in Honey Ridge to commit homicide.” She gave an overly dramatic shudder. “Please no murder in my library.”
A passing patron shot a strange glance in their direction. Carrie backpedaled. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Mayes. We’re talking about books.”
Mrs. Mayes waved both hands. “No need to explain. Nothing like a good suspense.”
Carrie shot a wry glance at Hayden. “We have the latest Hayden Winters novel, The Last Blackbird, two stacks over.”
“Oh, I haven’t read that one yet. Thank you, Carrie.”
The woman disappeared behind a wall of books, and Carrie followed her with her gaze.
“He’s here,” she said quietly.
Hayden swiveled his body in that direction. The Huck Finn look-alike stood in the entry, wolfing down cookies, a camo backpack over his shoulders.
Brody had lost the battle with the cowlick. The sprout of hair waved like a blond feather.
Hayden watched the boy with his usual curiosity, memorizing the little details. After a few cookies, four of which went into his backpack, Brody came into the library and looked around. When his gaze met Hayden’s, his expression flickered.
Hayden lifted a hand and motioned at him. To Carrie, he said, “A conversation won’t hurt anything. Maybe I can learn something to allay our concerns.”
“Sounds good. Want me to go or stay?”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll check the desk and be back in a few minutes.” With her easy, quiet manner, she strode toward Brody. As she passed, she smoothed his hair, said something to him and pointed toward Hayden.
Brody blinked a couple of times and glanced behind him before hitching the backpack higher and approaching Hayden’s table.
“Miss Carrie said you wanted to talk to me?”
“I’m Hayden. Remember from the other night?”
“Sure.” Pale, cautious eyes questioned why Hayden wanted to speak to him. “At Peach Orchard Inn.”
“That’s right. During the big storm.”
“Yeah. It was a good one.”
A kindred spirit, perhaps, in more ways than one? “You like thunderstorms?”
Brody hiked a shoulder. The dirty camo backpack rustled against a faded black Honey Ridge Raptors T-shirt. “They’re okay. Do you?”
“Love them. They’re wildly exciting.”
“Especially when you’re asleep in the woods.” A tiny smile crooked the corners of Brody’s mouth, drawing attention to his cleft chin. Pale eyes twinkled above a splatter of tan freckles. “Camping, I mean.”
“I’ve done that a few times, but I don’t think I’ve ever been caught in a storm that powerful. Did you get home okay?”
Brody’s chipper countenance changed. His gaze dropped to the table. “Fine. Miss Carrie dropped me off. Thanks for letting me stay in your room.” He glanced up again. “Did you write your book?”
“Not yet.” The strangely realistic dream pressed in, messing with his head. “I’m still thinking about it. Want to sit down?”
“I gotta do my homework.” Brody made a face. “English is hard.”
“I feel your pain.” Hayden kicked the chair back. “Go ahead. Sit. I might know a thing or two.”
Brody slouched out of his backpack and took the offered chair. “Did you hate English?”
Loved it, which infuriated his mother. He, she claimed, was sneering at her with his fancy vocabulary and fat books. All he’d wanted to do was learn...and to escape. Books offered both.
“Math,” he said.
“Math is not so bad. It’s just numbers.”
“Do you like to read?”
“Reading’s okay, I guess. Not the stuff they want us to read in school, but Miss Carrie helps me find cool books.” He reached into his backpack and dragged out an English literature text. A golden cheetah sleeked across the cover with verbs falling from his tongue.
Hayden placed a hand on top of the book. “Could we talk a minute before we start on homework?”
Uncertainty flitted across Brody’s face. He fidgeted. “What about?”
I want to know if your old man is knocking you around. I want to know if your mother calls or visits.
Instead, Hayden kept the conversation neutral. “You know your way around Honey Ridge pretty well—don’t you?”
“Lived here all my life.” Brody sounded as if he was ancient instead of eleven.
“I’m new to Honey Ridge, so maybe you could tell me about your town.”
Brody looked bewildered. “Like what?”
Hayden had the fleeting notion that he was about to jump off into uncharted territory. He didn’t get involved, certainly not with kids that reminded him too much of himself. He donated to causes, to literacy, to poverty programs, but he never got involved. Not personally and never more than necessary. He observed, he pried into other people’s business to get what he needed for his books and felt no guilt for refusing to allow them to pry in return. Then he quietly disappeared to write his stories.
Involvement was temporary and surface only. Involvement danced too close to the fire of revelation.
He studied the boy and had a painful flashback of being ten years old and feeling completely alone in the world.
Dora Lee had gone somewhere with her latest boyfriend, which was always a relief to Hayden. Boyfriends tended to dislike Dora Lee’s bookish brat.
The trailer had no heat, no food, and he’d slept huddled inside a sour-smelling quilt between the mattress and box springs for warmth. His gnawing belly kept him awake.
He’d never told a living soul of those cold, hungry days alone. It had been Christmas.
He suppressed the urge to ask the hard questions, knowing Brody would lie the same as Hayden would have. Protect the guilty because they were all you had.
One person, one calm oasis in a world of chaos, could change everything.
Brody needed an oasis.
But Hayden was no one’s savior. He didn’t have the hero gene. His time in Honey Ridge was limited. Brody’s situation, if there was one, was like a knife pressed too close to the bone.
Do the right thing, Hayden.
What if Mr. Franks had been a coward? Where would Hayden be today?
With an inward sigh and confident he’d live to regret the decision, he said, “I have a proposition for you.”
“What’s a proposition?”
“A deal. I need a guide to show me around town sometimes. Got any ideas for me?” Not that he actually needed a guide any more than he needed to get involved with a boy from a troubled home. Potentially troubled, as Carrie had reminded him.
Hayden felt compelled to find out one way or the other. He didn’t need a shrink to know the reasons.
The boy tilted his head and squinched his face. Nose freckles consolidated into a patch of tan across his cheekbones. “The Sweat twins know everything, but they’re really old. They might not have the energy.”
Carrie reappeared. She didn’t say a word, but Hayden felt the quiet freshness of her presence. Brody looked up. “Hi, Miss Carrie.”
She smoothed a hand down the back of the boy’s head. Hayden felt her touch all the way to his toes. Pathetic that he should still long for what he’d never had. He, a man with everything he ever wanted. Except that.
Steeling himself against the bizarre thoughts, he turned his attention back to the boy. “I was thinking about you.”
There. He’d done it. Jumped into the deep, aware that he was projecting his own sorry past and angry parent onto Brody.
Being wrong was acceptable. Being right and doing nothing wasn’t.
Brody lit up. Sitting up straighter, he tapped a hand against his chest, expression equal parts incredulous and excited. “Me?”
“Why not? You can do the job, can’t you?”
“Sure. I guess. I’m not doing anything anyway. And I know everybody in town. Mostly.”
“Great. We have a deal, then. After school on the days you’re not too busy with homework and while your dad is working, I’ll pick you up at your place and you can show me around.”
Brody’s mood darkened. “My dad might not like it.”
“I’ll talk to him first and explain that you’d be doing me a favor and getting paid at the same time. How about that?”
Brody shook his head. “I come to the library every day after school anyway. We can meet up here. My dad won’t have to know.”
That worked for Hayden. Sometimes keeping your mouth shut was the safest way.
Carrie’s soft voice intruded. “Not a good idea, Brody. Your dad would worry if he doesn’t know what you’re doing or who you’re with.”
“Nah, he don’t care about that. He just gets mad if I bother him about stupid stuff that don’t matter to him.” Then, as if he’d said too much, Brody slunk down in his chair and went silent, arms crossed tightly over the raptor logo.
Hayden huffed a frustrated breath. This was between him and Brody. Carrie should stay out of it.
He shot her a warning look and then said to Brody, “Is your dad working tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing for dinner?”
“I don’t know.” The words were mumbled.
“Can you recommend a good burger place?”
Brody’s head came up. “Plenty of them around here.”
“I’m starved. Let’s grab a burger and talk this over. We’ll figure out something.”
The boy looked to Carrie. Her lips had thinned as if she was annoyed with Hayden for pushing. But pushing was how he’d gotten to where he was. No risk, no reward.
Soften a kid up with food and they’d tell you things. He knew about that, too.
“I guess I can do my homework later.” Brody jammed the English book back into the bag.
“You should do your homework first, Brody.” Carrie glared at Hayden with those soft eyes now glittering with annoyance.
Hayden held up both hands in surrender. “I guess you’re stuck, Brody. We don’t want to make Miss Carrie mad. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to need this library over the next couple of months.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Miss Carrie’s usually real nice.”
Teeth bared, Carrie flared her fingers like claws. “They don’t call me the dragon lady for nothing.”
Hayden offered his most charming smile, wanting back on her good side. “The dragon lady wins. Homework first, Brody, my man. We’ll hang around until closing time and feed Miss Carrie a burger, too. Maybe some ice cream. Sweeten her up.”
“The library doesn’t close until five,” she said.
“Which gives my pal and me time to wrestle out the English assignment. Then we can drive around Honey Ridge, and you can show me the sights.”
Carrie shook her head. The light caught the pearly luminescence of her earrings. “We already have breakfast on Thursday.”
“You only eat once a week?”
She huffed, amused. “I have books to drop off after closing. Shut-ins that live up on the ridge.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
She blinked, puzzled. “Why would you want to?”
Because you intrigue me. All buttoned up, neat and tidy, and fresh as a flower. When his curiosity was roused, he never backed off until it was satisfied.
If he was truthful, he felt a connection with Carrie, whether because of Brody or their obvious shared love of books or something else. He wanted to know her better.
“Research,” he lied, smooth as warm butter. “I need to get the lay of the countryside anyway.”
“Oh, right.” Her eyes twinkled. “A place to commit murder.”
His smile was intentionally diabolical. “Exactly.”
“In that case, you’re staying across the road from the creepiest place in Honey Ridge. You should check that out first.”
“Yeah.” Brody piped up. “The old gristmill. People say it’s haunted.”
“Haunted, is it?”
The South was full of supposedly haunted places. Hayden had never given the stories credence. But then the dream flashed in his head, the dream about a Yankee miller and the Portland Grist Mill.
