Night Fever (4 page)

She flinched. “My father.”

Kilpatrick didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His level stare told her exactly what he thought of her family.
You're wrong,
she wanted to say.
We're not all like that.
But before she could even speak, he turned back to Malcolm. “Am I right in assuming that you're representing your secretary and her brother?”

“No,” Becky began, thinking of the legal fees she couldn't afford to pay.

“Yes,” Bob Malcolm interrupted. “It's a first offense, and the boy is a hardship case.”

“The boy is a sullen, uncooperative young brat,” he corrected. “I've already spoken to him. I don't consider him a hardship case,” Kilpatrick said curtly.

Becky could imagine how Clay would react to a man like Kilpatrick. The boy had no respect at all for men—not with the example his father had set. “He's not a bad boy,” she pleaded. “It's the company he's keeping. Please, I'll try to work with him…”

“Your father's done a great job of that already,” Kilpatrick said, totally unaware of the real situation at home as he went for her throat with sickening ease, his dark brown eyes stabbing into hers as he leaned back with his cigar between his big fingers. “There's no point in letting the boy back on the streets unless his home situation changes. He'll just do the same thing again.”

Her hazel eyes met his dark ones. “Do you have a brother, Mr. Kilpatrick?”

“Not to my knowledge, Miss Cullen.”

“If you had one, you might understand how I feel. This is the first time he's done anything like this. It's like throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”

“This baby was in possession of illegal drugs. Cocaine, to be exact, and not just cocaine—crack.” He leaned forward, looking more Indian than ever, his level, unblinking stare faintly dangerous. “He needs guidance. You and your father quite obviously aren't capable of giving it to him.”

“That was a low blow, Kilpatrick,” Bob Malcolm said tautly.

“It was an accurate one,” he returned without apology. “At this age, boys don't change without help. He should have gotten that in the beginning, and it may be too late already.”

“But…!” Becky said.

“Your brother is damned lucky he didn't get caught peddling any of that poison on the street!” he said shortly. “I hate drug pushers. I'll go to any lengths to prosecute them.”

“But he isn't a pusher,” Becky said huskily, her big hazel eyes wet with tears.

Kilpatrick hadn't felt compassion in a long time, and he didn't like it. He averted his eyes. “Not yet,” he agreed. He sighed angrily, glancing from Becky to Malcolm. “All right. Gillen, the magistrate, says he'll go along with whatever I decide. The boy denies possession. He says that he didn't know how it got in his jacket, and the only witnesses are the Harris boys. They, of course, back his story to the hilt,” he added with a cold smile.

“In other words,” Bob said with a faint smile, “you don't have much of a case.”

“Chorus and verse,” Kilpatrick agreed. “This time,” Kilpatrick said with a meaningful glance at Becky. “I'll drop the charges.”

Becky felt sick with relief. “Can I see him?” she asked huskily. She was too badly hurt to say any more, and this man hated her. She'd get no sympathy or help from him.

“Yes. I'll want Brady at juvenile hall to talk to the boy, and there'll be a condition for the release. Now, go away. I have work to do.”

“Okay, we'll get out of the way,” Malcolm said, rising. “Thanks, Kilpatrick,” he said formally.

Kilpatrick got up, too. He stuck one hand in his pocket, staring at Rebecca's tragic face with mixed emotions. He felt sorry for her, and he didn't want to. He wondered why her father hadn't come with her. She was very thin, and the sadness in her oval face was disturbing. It surprised him that it bothered him. These days, very little did. She wasn't the cocky, amusing companion he'd had several elevator rides with. Not now. She looked totally without hope.

He saw them out the door and went back into his office without a word to his secretary.

“We'll go over to juvenile hall,” Bob Malcolm was telling Becky as he put her into the elevator and pressed the sixth floor button. “Everything will be all right. If Kilpatrick can't prove his case, he won't pursue it. Clay can leave with us.”

“He wouldn't even listen to me,” she said huskily.

“He's a hard man. Probably the best D.A. this county's had in a long time, but sometimes he can be inflexible. Not an easy man to face across a courtroom, either.”

“I can understand that.”

 

B
ECKY WENT TO JUVENILE HALL
to see her brother after work. She was ushered into a tiny meeting room to wait for him. Clay walked in fifteen minutes later, looking frightened and belligerent all at once.

“Hi, Becky,” he said with a cocky grin. “They didn't beat me, so you don't need to worry. They won't send me to jail. I've talked with two other kids who know the ropes. They say juvenile hall is just a slap on the wrist because we're underage. I'll beat this rap sitting down.”

“Thank you,” she told him, stiff-lipped and cold-eyed. “Thank you for your generous consideration of your grandfather's feelings and mine. It's nice to know that you love us enough to become notorious on our behalf.”

Clay was wild, but he had a heart. He toned down instantly and dropped his eyes.

“Now, tell me what happened,” she said shortly, sitting down across from him after Mr. Brady, the juvenile officer on Clay's case, joined them.

“Didn't they tell you?” Clay asked.

“You tell me,” she countered.

He gave her a long look and shrugged. “I was drunk,” he muttered, twisting his hands over his jeans-clad legs. “They said let's do some crack, and I just nodded. I flaked out in the back seat and didn't come to until the police stopped us. My pockets were full of the stuff. I don't know how it got there. Honest, Becky,” he added. His sister and brother and grandfather were the only people on earth he loved. He hated what he'd done, but he was too proud to admit it. “I sobered up real good after Kilpatrick talked to me.”

“Possession of illegal drugs alone could get you a prison term of up to ten years, if the D.A. decided to try you as an adult,” Mr. Brady interjected with a level glance. “And you may not be out of the woods yet. Mr. Kilpatrick, the district attorney, would very much like to nail you to the wall.”

“He can't. I'm a juvenile.”

“Only for another year. And reform school wouldn't appeal to you, young man. I can promise you that.”

Clay looked subdued, and a little less belligerent. He twisted his hands in his lap. “I won't go to jail, will I?”

“Not this time,” the juvenile officer said. “But don't underestimate Kilpatrick. Your father was pretty arrogant when he beat the robbery charge, and that didn't endear your family to the D.A. He's a very moral man. He doesn't like lawbreakers. It would do you good to remember that. He still thinks your father threatened that victim to keep him from talking.”

“Dad was arrested?” Clay began.

“Never mind,” Becky said, stiffening her features.

He glanced at her, noticing reluctantly the strain in her face, the sadness. He felt a twinge of conscience.

“I'll say this once,” Mr. Brady told Clay. “You've got a chance to keep your nose clean. If you throw it away, no one is going to be able to help you—not your sister or me. You may beat the rap for a while, as long as you're a juvenile. But you're seventeen. And if the crime is severe enough, the district attorney would be within his authority to have you prosecuted as an adult. If you keep messing around with drugs, inevitably you'll serve time. I wish I could show you what that means. Our prisons are overcrowded, and even the best of them are hellholes for young offenders. If you don't like being ordered around by your sister, you sure as hell aren't going to like being some older boy's imitation girlfriend.” He stared at Clay. “Do you understand what I mean, son? They'd pass you around like a new toy.”

Clay reddened. “They wouldn't! I'd fight…!”

“You'd lose. Think about it. Meanwhile, you're going to get some counseling,” the juvenile officer said. “We've set up appointments for you at the mental health clinic. You'll be required to go. I hope you understand that this is Kilpatrick's idea, and that he'll check on you periodically. I wouldn't advise you to miss a session.”

“Damn Kilpatrick,” Clay said harshly.

“That's not a good attitude to take,” Brady warned quietly. “You're in a lot of trouble. Kilpatrick can be your worst enemy or your best friend. You wouldn't like him as an enemy.”

Clay muttered something and averted his eyes to the window. He looked as if he hated the whole world.

Becky knew exactly how he felt. She wanted to cry. She clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.

“Okay, Clay, you can go with your sister for now. We'll talk again.”

“All right,” Clay said tautly. He got up and reluctantly shook hands with the man. “Come on, Sis. Let's go home.”

She didn't speak. She walked to the car like a zombie and got in behind the wheel, barely waiting for Clay to shut his door before she drove away. Inside, she felt sick all the way to her soul.

“I'm sorry I got caught,” Clay said when they were halfway home. “I guess you're having a pretty hard time of it, being stuck with Granddad and me and Mack.”

“I'm not stuck with it,” she lied. “I love you all.”

“Love shouldn't make prisons of people's lives,” Clay said. He glanced sideways at her, with a crafty look in his eyes that she didn't see. “Really, Becky, I didn't know what I was getting into.”

“I'm sure you didn't,” she said, forgiving him anything, just as she always had. She managed a smile. “I just don't know what to do, how to cope. The district attorney was pretty rough.”

“That Kilpatrick man,” he muttered icily. “God, I hate him! He came to see me at that juvenile hall. He stared right through me and made me feel like a worm. He said I'd wind up just like Dad.”

“You won't,” she said stubbornly. “He had no right to say such a thing!”

“He didn't want to let me go,” Clay said hesitantly. “He tried to talk Mr. Brady into putting me in reform school. He got upset when he couldn't get him to agree. He says anybody who fools with drugs deserves to go to jail.”

“Mr. Kilpatrick can go to hell,” she said fiercely. “We'll get by.”

“Look,” he began. “I could get a job—after school, you know. I could make some money…”

“I'm doing fine,” she said, almost choking on the words. “You don't need to get a job,” she added, missing the flash of anger on his face. “I'll take care of you, just like I always have. You finish school and go to work then. You've only got this year to go. That's not so much.”

“Look, I'm seventeen!” he burst out. “I don't need looking after anymore! I'm sick of nothing but working around the farm and never having any pocket money. There's this girl I like and she won't give me the time of day. You won't even let me get a damned car!”

“Don't you cuss me!” she flashed at him. “Don't you dare!”

“Let me out.” He reached for the door handle, his eyes daring her. “I'll do it, I swear. Stop this car and let me out!”

“Clay, where are you going?!” she demanded when he was on the pavement.

“Somewhere I can be what I want to be,” he said harshly. “I'm not your little boy, Becky, I'm your brother! You just don't get it, do you? I'm not a kid you can order around! I'm a man!”

She slumped a little, stretched toward the open door, her hazel eyes weary, her face heavily lined. “Oh, Clay,” she said heavily. “Clay, what am I going to do now?” She broke down, and tears ran down her cheeks.

He hesitated, torn between standing up for his independence and erasing that look from Becky's face. He hadn't meant to hurt her, but he wasn't quite in control of himself these days. He had these violent mood swings….

He slid back inside the car and closed the door, eyeing her warily. He felt suddenly older as he realized how much an act her strength really was. Guilt sat on him like a rock. He should never had added to her burden by acting like a stupid kid.

“Look, it will be all right,” he began hesitantly. “Becky, please stop crying.”

“Granddad will die,” she whispered. She dug for a handkerchief in her purse and wiped her eyes. “He'll find out, no matter how hard we try to keep it from him.”

“Hey. How about if we move to Savannah?” he suggested, and smiled. “We could build yachts and get rich.”

That brightness lifted her spirits. She smiled back. “Dad would find out that we had money and come looking for us,” she said with graveyard humor.