Читать книгу Familiar Stranger - Sharon Sala - Страница 11

Frank Wilson slammed the phone down in disgust. So far, no amount of money had been able to buy him any pertinent information on where his baby brother had gone. David had disappeared as thoroughly as he had when he’d first come back from Vietnam. He frowned as he stared across the room. He didn’t like not knowing where his enemies were. It left him defenseless, and he didn’t like being weak.

Abruptly, he strode to the window overlooking the street below. East L.A. was an easy place to get lost in. Cash bought anonymity here. Identification was unnecessary for renting rooms or cars if enough money changed hands. Despite all that, the fact that he was still in the United States was dangerous. He’d messed with Uncle Sam’s elite, and even though he’d gotten away, he’d ruffled far too many feathers to think they’d brushed him off.

His frown deepened as he absently stared at the people on the street below. There were too damned many people in this world and not a one of them knew their hand from their ass. The longer he thought about it, the more convinced he became that that was what was wrong with his plans. No more trying to get to David through other people. He’d taken eleven runs at the man and come up empty-handed every time. The next time it happened, it would be himself and David—face to face.

Next time.

In frustration, he suddenly slammed his fist against the window ledge, and in doing so, jarred his shoulder, sending a barrage of pain up his neck and to the back of his head. What if there was no next time?

Cursing the infirmity that caused him pain, he turned away from the window and moved to the bed to lie down, telling himself that he would find David. It would happen—when he was ready. He had no desire to face him again until his gunshot wounds weren’t so tender. Another day or so and he’d be raring to go.

He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift. Outside, the squeal of a police siren came and went, while down the hall, he could hear a man cursing and a woman’s shrill cries for help. He rolled over on his good shoulder and pulled the pillow over his head. Crazy. The world had gone crazy. Within a few minutes, he was snoring. Sometime later, he began to dream.

“Frankie, go find your brother and tell him supper is ready.”

Ten-year-old Frankie Wilson rolled his eyes, then peeked over the kitchen counter to the pies cooling on the rack near the sink.

“Okay, Ma, and can I have seconds on dessert?”

“If you eat good.”

“I will,” Frankie said, exiting the kitchen on the run.

He jumped off the porch and ran around the holly bushes toward the side of the house where his six-year-old brother, Davie, had been playing. But when he got there, the yard was empty.

“Dumb kid,” he muttered, thinking of the dessert awaiting him inside. “Hey, Davie! Supper!”

No one answered and no little kid came running. He began to circle the house, thinking that Davie must have moved to the shade tree in front. But when he got there, his little brother was nowhere in sight.

“Hey, Davie! Davie!”

No answer. He frowned. Frankie Wilson considered himself almost grown, but Davie was just a kid, and he knew better than to leave the yard without permission.

He jogged toward the sidewalk, and as he did he heard the unmistakable cry of someone in pain. A few feet farther, he rounded the lilac bush and saw his little brother sitting on the curb, holding his knee. His bicycle with training wheels was lying on its side in the street.

“Hey, kid, what happened?” Frankie asked, as he knelt in front of Davie.

Davie sniffed loudly, then wiped a dirty hand beneath his nose.

“I fell and skinned my knee,” he said.

Frankie looked. Sure enough, the kid was missing a good chunk of skin and bleeding all over his shoes.

“You weren’t supposed to be in the street. If Ma finds out, she’ll whip your butt.”

Davie’s eyes widened. Not only had his brother used the B word, but he was right about their mother. She would whip him for riding his bike in the street.

“Don’t tell on me, Frankie. I don’t want a whipping.”

Frankie sighed. Being a big brother carried a lot of responsibilities. He patted Davie on the head and then helped him to his feet.

“Come on, kid. I’ll get your bike in the yard and Ma will just think you fell off there, okay?”

Davie nodded. “Okay.” Then he smiled through his tears. “Thanks, Frankie, you’re the best brother ever.”