Between Darkness and Daylight (13 page)

Enrique wasn't altogether proud of the things he'd done in the past, in his marriage, or the lies he'd had to tell and live since then to stay afloat and get his current position. He salved his ego and sense of right and wrong with the integrity of his mission and why it was necessary. And he was proud of his creation, that the teacher "Martin Richards" had taken on a life of his own, was an entity functional and separate from his originator.

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Gracie C. McKeever

The thoughts should have bothered him, that he was thinking in terms of "him" and "me," but he was too busy reaping the benefits of his invention to worry at the state of his mental health, a minor consideration when all was taken into account.

He’d gone into his first few months with all this in mind, and his initial days and weeks of deception had passed without incident. It helped that Enrique connected with the kids, liked playing the role of instructor and sculptor of future generations.

Until he bumped into Ransom Youngblood in the first floor boys'

room.

Normally, he stayed clear of the students outside of class, and the teachers, too, as much as possible, especially Mr. Caseworker. He had nothing in common with the faculty, didn't relate to their trials or their lives, and knew that none of them would be able to relate to his. Before meeting the enemy's blood, he'd almost forgotten the reasons behind his charade, that he was at the school for a specific reason that had nothing to do with socializing or shaping the psyche of America's youth. He'd become the part, rather than just playing the part, and he hadn't realized how thoroughly he'd adapted before he encountered Ransom crying in one of the stalls and some protective instinct had gone into overdrive as he tried to coax the boy out of the stall to talk.

"Are you okay in there?"

"Can't a guy have a private moment in the freakin' bathroom?"

Enrique frowned. He squatted down to peek under the stall door and got a resounding bang for his trouble as the boy inside kicked it with the sole of a sneaker, as if to warn away his intruder. "You can't stay in there forever."

"Wanna bet?"

When Enrique heard a wet sniffle, he decided not to address it, at least not immediately, knowing it would alienate rather than draw the kid to him. He decided to play it tough. That always worked, and garnered respect. "Want to come out of there before I call security?"

"What? You think I'm using drugs or doing something else illegal in here?"

"You wouldn't be the first."

"Well I'm not. I'm just…taking a break. Now go away."

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"Not until you come out."

Enrique listened to a string of curses as the boy kicked the door again, surprised that a teenager who sounded so young had such a blue repertoire. He wondered what his own kids—years younger and still innocent, in his mind—were up to in their schools, how they were faring.

Thinking about his boy and girl made him that much more determined, desperate to get the teen out of the stall into the open. He needed to see his face, look into his eyes.

"We can't just keep talking through the stall door."

"I didn't ask you to talk to me anyway."

"Ah, playing the hard-ass, are we?" Enrique heard a chuckle through the snuffling and knocked on the stall door. "I bet there's no toilet paper in there for you to dry your eyes."

"Who said my eyes are wet?"

"C'mon out so we can talk,
m'ijo.
" Enrique almost slapped a hand over his mouth at the slip, hoped the boy didn't notice. The endearment had slid out so naturally, as if he were back in the living room with his son Ricky, trying to comfort the four-year-old after his and Frenchie's last fight. The look of fear and mistrust in his young son's eyes at that moment had followed him through every day since Frenchie and the kids disappeared.

The boy unlocked the stall and slowly opened the door. His eyes were red and still moist, and he did nothing to hide the fact that he'd been crying up a storm, not that he could hide it.

"What's the problem,
h—
homeboy?"

"I don't like this school, I hate the people, I hate this city and I…I hate my uncle."

"Whoa, that's a quite an inventory. Who's your uncle?"

Enrique knew before the boy said it. The name had been haunting his every waking and sleeping moment since he'd first seen it on court papers three years ago—the name of the man who had taken his wife and children from him.

"He's the counselor and social worker here. He…he's making me go to this school."

"It's not such a bad school."

"I don't know anyone here."

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"Martin Richards. I'm the fitness teacher." Enrique stuck out his hand and the boy left him hanging. "Now you know me."

"Yeah, but you don't count. You're a teacher."

"Thanks a lot…" Enrique arched a brow, hand still out, waiting.

"Ransom Youngblood." He stuck his hand in the teacher's. "But you know what I mean. I…I don't like the kids. They're all older and…they're mean and I just don't like them. And I hate my uncle for making me come here. I want to go home."

"I'm sure your uncle's doing the best he can."

"Best for who?"

The more Enrique argued in defense of Ransom's uncle, the more the boy defamed him, until Enrique almost felt sympathy for Mr. Caseworker.

Almost. The situation was too perfect. He was right where he needed and wanted to be, positioned perfectly, close to a loved one of Mr.

Caseworker. Could it get any better?

"I want to go home," Ransom repeated.

"Where is home?"

"It used to be in Orange County. I lived there with my mom before…before she died."

"I'm sorry." Something in Enrique twisted; he barely recognized it as sympathy. Thoughts of revenge were momentarily snuffed out by Ransom's grief. Momentarily only. He knew what he had to do, what he needed to do, and couldn't let a boy's grief stop him. He had his own son to think about after all.

"My uncle sold our house, so I had to come out here to live with him and go to this rinky-dink school."

"And I'll bet the schools are so much better out in Orange County."

"Damn straight."

"And they teach you such colorful language."

Ransom chuckled, glancing at him from the corner of an eye. "I slip every once in a while. Especially since coming to this rinky-dink school."

"Touché."

"I mean, it's not all that bad, I guess. It's just that I had to leave all my friends behind." Ransom paused, lips trembling, eyes welling. "I miss my best friend."

"That's rough."

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"You don't really care. You're just saying all the right things to try and make me feel better."

"That's not true, Ransom. I do understand. I know exactly how you feel."

"My dad used to beat me. Do you know how that feels?"

Enrique stopped himself short of gaping. He didn't know whether the kid was spilling his guts out of a sincere need to lighten baggage, or whether he just wanted to see how far he needed to go to shock the fitness teacher.

He did know that the kid had hit his mark, a mark Enrique hadn't even known was still on him, indelibly etched in his soul like a Holocaust victim's brand. He felt like the kid had looked past his shell to see the marks inside, on his essence, that he recognized the look of a fellow victim, was able to see the invisible scars of one who'd been through his same hell.

"Well, do you, Mr. Richards? I bet you don't."

"You'd lose." Against his better judgment, Enrique put an arm around Ransom's shoulder, pulled him close. "Your uncle doesn't beat you, does he?"

Ransom pulled back to stare at him as if he were nuts. "Uncle Zane?

He'd never lay a hand on me. As bad as I've been, he would have by now."

"So you admit you're a tough customer?" This was dangerous. He related—to Mr. Caseworker and his nephew. But he didn't want to relate, didn't want to get close to them.

Ransom shrugged. "I guess I can be. I've been a real pain in the ass lately anyway."

"You're allowed."

The boy stared at him, the look on his face plainly saying he didn't want to trust him, but Enrique knew right in that moment that the boy did trust him, that he wanted someone to listen to him.

And he'd always been as good at listening as he was at waiting.

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Chapter 9

At Zane's "make yourself comfortable" invitation, Nova wandered the loft, entranced by the dwelling's eclectic design and decoration and the traces of a female's touch. Plush Aztec-patterned carpeting complemented the velvet taupe recliner and sectional and the matching turquoise curtains and blinds that adorned several large floor-to-ceiling windows.

She flipped through various entertainment and trade magazines haphazardly strewn atop the glass dolphin cocktail table poised at the center of the sectional, surprised that such an enormous dwelling could feel so warm and cozy.

Stopping at a large potted plant near one of the windows, she caressed one long jutting leaf, awed by the plant's lush healthiness. She wasn't good with plants herself, her thumbs so far from green that cactus plants had been known to buy the farm under her care. She admired that a man was so good at maintaining a plant that wasn't illegal, then had to amend the thought because “illegal” and “Zane Youngblood” didn’t go in the same sentence.

Spotting the train set across the room, she froze then almost ran across the floor to get a better look, like a kid spotting the hottest toy at FAO

Schwartz. The detailing was exquisite. There were mountain ranges, tunnels, bridges, small bodies of water beneath the bridges, and trees and houses dotting the countryside. Miniature travelers and their luggage lining the train station platforms rounded out the scene.

The set occupied a section of floor as large as her computer room at home, and she could see that a lot of time and care had gone into assembling it. Her hand itched to pick up the remote control, give the engine a go around the track.

"I think everyone who comes here shows more interest in that set than my nephew does."

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Nova turned as Zane made his way across the spacious floor and handed her the glass of ice water she'd requested. She took it and smiled as he nudged her shoulder with his. "What?"

He jerked his head at the train set. "You want to take her for a whirl?"

She wanted to take a lot more than his toy trains for a whirl; she almost slipped and said it, silently giving him her best come-hither look instead.

She doubted, however, that she'd hit her mark. Maybe she'd lost her touch after a five-year engagement and a hoyden, boy-hating childhood she’d never quite left behind.

Her mom had deprived her of pursing her strongest tomboy aspirations as a child, harping on Nova’s unfeminine habit of whistling, her desire to play drums in a rock band, and her unladylike fence-climbing. Mom steered clear of playing into Nova’s affinity for Hot Wheels and Lionel trains, forcing Easy Bake and Barbie on her instead. To keep the peace, Nova settled for the requisite dolls and tea sets on Christmases and birthdays, which was a huge concession for a girl who didn't have the vivid imagination or wish to sit down and host a tea party where only Barbie, Chrissie, and Tippy-Tumbler were the guests.

Mom was a study in contradictions. On the one hand, she was a rebel and trend-setter, practicing mediumship and exploring psychic phenomenon before supernatural was "in" and liberal to the point of advocating abortion rights. On the other, she envisioned all the traditional female pursuits she could think of for her daughter—June wedding, 2.3

children after marriage, and a stay-at-home mom behind a white picket fence.

"Actually, I'm raring to take her for a whirl, but maybe later." Nova sipped her water, trying to let a decent amount of time pass before she completely took over his train set. She wanted to get her hands on those controls and play until her heart was content. What she
really
wanted to get her hands on
him
and let her fingers roam until her cunt was well and truly wet with wanting just a little more of him.

Nova mentally slapped her hand—
down, girl, down!—
and turned from the train set, sauntering across the room to the dining area. It felt like she was stepping into a burger joint from the Fifties, complete with a black-and-white checked linoleum floor and a working jukebox against the aqua 94

Gracie C. McKeever

wall. She pulled out a vinyl-and-chrome chair and took a seat, ready to order a burger, fries, and a malt, mouth now watering for the dinner that Zane had promised her.

He came over and took the seat opposite her.

"I like what you've done with the place."

"Most of the decoration is compliments of Sinny…my wife."

"And the plants?"

"She bought most of them, but I've managed to keep them from death's door so far."

"You have a strong nurturer's spirit."

He tilted his head to peer at her, sensual lips curving into a devilish grin. "You were expecting an Oscar Madison, weren't you?"

Nova shrugged, unsure of what her expectations had been, besides taking advantage of his company, and confused by her own statement, but sure of its accuracy. She knew that Zane liked taking care of people,
needed
to take care of people, especially children. His love and protectiveness for the vulnerable, the weak, and the young was a clearly delineated force field surrounding his being.

She needed to get away from him before she said or did anything else more bizarre. Why had she agreed to come back to his apartment? She was only taunting herself with what she couldn’t have, what she had given up in L.A. with Matt—being part of a happy couple.

Unconsciously, she rubbed the bandage on her arm. The cut beneath was starting to tingle.

Zane noticed her motion and reached across the table for her hand.