Breathe Page 4

My guess was, he was nine, maybe ten and I figured it was a good guess. The Carnal Library was the only one in the county. This meant folks from Gnaw Bone and Chantelle came there even if it was a ways away. Also, the schools of Carnal, Gnaw Bone and Chantelle took field trips to my library so I’d seen a lot of kids. And, last, my sister had kids. And one was nearly nine, about that boy’s size, his height but my nephew was a lot better fed.

  He’d been coming in for a few months, once or twice a week.

  And more than twice, I’d seen bruises. Once, around his jaw. Once on his cheekbone. Once around both wrists.

  He always slunk in, eyes to the ground, shoulders hunched, thin, beaten up coat way not warm enough for this weather hanging on him, obviously trying to be invisible.

  And he stole lbooks. One or two each time he came, whatever he could shove in his coat and take away.

  I hadn’t made a big deal of this because, with regularity, books not checked out were in the return bin in the morning and I’d put one and one together and made the two that he wasn’t stealing them, he was borrowing them. Just not the normal way. And I’d tried to approach him on several occasions to tell him all he needed to do was apply for a library card. But the instant I got near, he shuffled away, darted between rows of books and eventually raced out.

  The first time this happened, I thought he wouldn’t come back. But he did.

  This meant he liked his books like I liked mine. And clearly he didn’t have the money to get them at a shop. So he got them the only way he could.

  I didn’t get why he didn’t get a library card but at the same time I did.

  Something was not right with that boy.

  And today it was less right. I knew this because, even though he ducked his face away and headed straight to the short flight of stairs that led up to the fiction section, I saw he had bruising on his cheekbone and around his swollen eye.

  This made me forget about Chace Keaton.

  It also made me forget about the decision I made some time ago that I’d let him borrow as he felt he had to do it. He returned the books, it was no skin off my nose. And clearly they gave him something he needed enough to brave stealing them (essentially) and going out into a world filled with people that scared the heck out of him. I knew this because I was a librarian, I was a woman, I was five foot six and I was no threat and still, he ran away from me. Sure he was stealing my books (essentially) but also, he was not.

  But seeing that black eye, I was reminded of something my Dad said.

  “A wrong is just wrong no matter who’s doin’ it or who it’s done to. You know someone’s doin’ wrong and even if it has not one thing to do with you, you do what you can to right that wrong. You don’t, you’re no kind of person or, at least, no kind of person I’d wanna know.”

  These were words Dad lived by.

  This was also a philosophy that meant him living in Carnal with what had been going on for as long as it had been going on had made his life a living hell.

  He’d lodged formal complaints (twelve of them) against the Carnal Police Department. He’d also encouraged others to do the same, blatantly and with intent, even going so far as to go to their house and have a chat (or chats, plural, if need be) if he heard something not right had gone down. He’d also visited Mick Shaughnessy, the head honcho of the Police Force in Gnaw Bone and a buddy of my Dad’s, about how he could intervene and he did this more than once (in fact, five times that I knew). He’d further told Arnold Fuller, the dirty cop ringleader, the police Captain then the Chief of Police, and now a dead man (literally), exactly what he thought of him on more than one occasion both publicly and privately.

  As well as all this, even though everyone agreed, Dad was one of few who speculated openly and widely (in other words, to all who would listen, including Mick Shaughnessy) about the fact that Ty Walker was extradited to stand trial and then went down for a crime my father was certain (and he was right) Ty didn’t commit.

  And last, my Dad had been pulled over and had more tickets than any other citizen in town and once had been arrested for drunk and disorderly when he was neither. And all this happened because he did all of the above.

  Every single ticket, as well as the arrest, he fought loudly, boisterously but not always successfully.

  But he never gave up.

  And I knew, looking at that boy, wrong was being done to him. I also knew, with his eye swollen shut, I had to stop doing the little I was doing, letting him get away with stealing books (essentially) and I had to start doing something more.

  I searched the immediate area, noted no patrons were close to approaching the check out desk and I skirted it to move out into the library. Cautiously and quietly, I moved up the steps then, like a super-sleuth, feeling more than a little idiotic, I rounded the shelves and stopped. Hiding my body, I peeked just my head around the side to check the aisle to see if he was there.

  I found him three rows in.

  I pulled my head back, pressed my back into the side of the shelf and took a deep breath.

  Then I peeked just my head around again and called softly, “Please don’t run. You aren’t in trouble.”

  He was squatting to the bottom shelf, a book in his hand and his head snapped around and up.

  It was then I saw the full extent of damage to his face.

  Not only a black eye, swollen shut, and a bruised cheekbone but a swollen, painful looking nose and a gash on his lip that glistened, not because it had been treated with ointment but because it was gaping and exposing flesh.

  My stomach clutched, my frame froze and my throat closed. He dropped the book, shot up straight and dashed down the aisle the opposite direction from me.

  At his movements, I came unstuck, quickly turned on my boot and raced down my side, clearing the shelves and seeing him darting down the stairs. No, jumping down them three steps at a time, taking him down in two big jumps that made my heart jump with him because I feared he’d harm himself.

  “Please! Stop! You’re not in trouble!” I shouted. “Promise!” I kept shouting as I ran down the steps after him. “I just want to talk!”

  Out the door he went and out the door I went after him, down the sidewalk to town.

  The pavements were cleared, my boots had low heels and I belonged to McLeod’s Gym. I didn’t do those boot camps they had at McLeod’s because they weren’t at times I could attend (not to mention, I’d heard about them and they scared me). But I did go four times a week to spend half an hour on the Stairmaster, treadmill or rowing machine.

  “A body takes care of itself or a body finds they don’t have a body no more.”

  This was more of Dad’s wisdom. So I took care of mine.

  This meant, I might not be ready to attempt my first Iron Man, but I wasn’t in bad shape.

  Even with all this going for me, I was no match for the boy. He sprinted three blocks gaining more and more, darted around the corner into town and by the time I darted around it after him, he’d disappeared.

  I stood there, breathing slightly heavy, my gaze scanning the area to find any trace of him but he was gone.

  “Darn,” I whispered, hoping I didn’t scare him into never coming back at the same time knowing that was not all I should do.

  He was nine or ten and regularly beaten by someone. Bullies or, God, I hoped not, family. I knew it. And I had to do something about it.

  I stood in the cold without a coat, my breaths coming out in visible puffs, my mind sifting through my possible next steps.

  First, I had to get back to the library. I was the only one on which meant there was no one there except patrons.

  Then, I could do two things.

  One, I could call my Dad, tell him what was happening and lay the problem on his broad shoulders, knowing he’d look into it then promptly do something about it.

  Two, I could be a grown up, not call my Dad to hand over a burden that wasn’t mine but was all the same and I could go to the Police Station, report what I’d se
en and hope they’d do something about it.

  The problem with that was, Chace Keaton worked at the Police Station.

  The boy’s nose, eye, cheekbone and lip came into sharp relief in my mind’s eye and I closed my actual eyes as I sucked in breath.

  I opened them and turned back to the library knowing what I had to do.

  I should note, not liking it.

  But knowing it.

  * * * * *

  Chace

  It was quarter to seven when she walked in.

  He’d applied for the job in Carnal upon graduation from the Academy. It was the only place he’d worked since earning his badge and he’d worked there thirteen years.

  And not once had Faye Goodknight walked into the Police Department. Not even when Rowdy Crabtree brought her father in on that trumped up charge for drunk and disorderly when Silas Goodknight had just been in Bubba’s, a place he didn’t frequent but he wasn’t a stranger. Silas had been celebrating a friend’s fiftieth birthday. Silas, nowhere near drunk and definitely not disorderly, spent the night in the tank. His wife, Sondra, had come in to make bail and pick him up.

  Fortunately, the charge didn’t stick. And none of the Goodknights knew this but the reason it didn’t was because Chace intervened with Fuller, talking him down about targeting another well-respected, well-liked citizen. He’d explained Fuller already had enough talk in town about what was done to Walker, he didn’t need more speculation. And worse, he didn’t need to rile up Goodknight who had demonstrated, repeatedly, he was not the kind of man to go away quiet, lick his wounds and fight another day. He was the kind of man who would go down fighting which meant he’d take others with him.

  Fuller had, surprisingly, relented and set up Crabtree to take the hit of a bad arrest.

  Now, she was here. And he saw her eyes skid through him at his desk while they scanned the room and she moved to reception.

  He figured she was there at that time because the library opened at ten and closed at six.

  He also figured she was there at that time because she expected him not to be there.

  Whatever reason she was there, he should leave it be. He knew he should leave it be.

  But he couldn’t help but think it was no coincidence that he’d not spoken to her directly once in all the years they’d lived in the same town, now they’d spoken twice and she was there.

  So he didn’t leave it be.

  He got up and started to the reception desk.

  Her clear blue eyes skittered to him when he was five feet away and he felt the touch of them like it was real. A hand curled around his neck. Fingers gliding into his hair. Soft, light, sweet.

  That kind of real.

  Fuck.

  She just had to look at him, that was it, and he reacted.

  He continued on his path to the last place he should be.

  Close to Faye Goodknight.

  “Everything all right, Faye?” he asked when he got there.

  “She’s got a report to make,” Jon, the officer on duty at the desk, answered for her.

  Chace didn’t take his eyes from Faye. “About what?”

  Jon answered again, humor in his tone now, “We haven’t gotten that far.”

  Chace’s body and mouth made a decision and carried it out again before his brain caught up.

  And this was, stepping to the side and opening the low, hinged, wooden gate, eyes still on Faye, mouth saying, “Faye, you follow me. Jon, I’ll handle it.”

  Her teeth appeared in order to bite her lip, she hesitated a moment then she moved to do as he asked.

  Chace felt Jon’s eyes on him but he didn’t glance in his direction. It wasn’t worth the effort. First, whatever this was, he was going to handle it and he had rank on Jon so Jon had no say in the matter. Second, Jon had a big mouth and even if Chace threatened him, Jon would run that mouth. It wasn’t worth the effort to do more than threaten him. So whatever Jon was thinking about Chace intervening would be all over the Station by tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. And Faye looking the way she looked and Chace showing at reception before she even had a chance to explain why she was there, he knew exactly what would be all over the Station by tomorrow.

  This last, he didn’t give a fuck about. Enough words had been whispered about Chace over the last six years. This no longer affected him.

  He led Faye to an interrogation room, opened the door and kept it open with arm extended, his nonverbal invitation for her to precede him. She glanced at him then lifted a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear as she looked away, ducked her head and walked by him.

  He’d seen her tuck her hair behind her ear, often. And he’d always thought it was cute.

  Seeing it close up, it was, like everything he was noting about Faye, a fuckuva lot cuter.

  He stepped in behind her, closed the door and leaned his back against it, crossing his arms on his chest.

  “Um… you might be mistaken,” she started, her eyes moving to the door behind him before lifting to his. “I’m not certain this needs privacy, Detective Keaton.”

  “I thought we decided on Chace.”

  She blinked and her head gave a slight twitch. “What?”

  “I want you to call me Chace, Faye.”

  “Right,” she whispered, her eyes on him having changed so she wasn’t simply meeting his but studying him.

  “Now, what doesn’t need privacy?” he prompted.

  “I…” She started, paused then continued, “See, there’s this…” She paused again, adjusted her torso in a way where it seemed she was trying to straighten her shoulders but failing as her eyes drifted away and she went on, “The thing is…” she trailed off, stopped and he watched as her teeth came back out. This time, they caught her lower lip on the outside then pulled in, teeth gliding over her lip and disappearing.

  Christ, everything she did, having no clue she was doing it, was not only unbelievably sexy but her having no clue she was doing it was precisely why her doing it was unbelievably sexy.

  “Faye,” he said softly, her gaze shot back to his and she spoke again, this time quickly.

  “There’s a boy,” she began. “I don’t know, nine, ten years old. He comes into the library and steals books.”

  “I see,” he murmured then guessed, “You don’t want to get him into trouble but you also can’t have him stealing books.”

  “No,” she shook her head, “he returns them.”

  Chace blinked.

  Then he asked, “What?”

  “He returns them,” she answered and kept talking in a rush. “I mean, since he steals them instead of checks them out, I can’t know if he’s returning all of them. But, for months now, he’s been coming in once or twice a week and once or twice a week I’ll have two or three books in the return bin that were never checked out. So, since I have no record what he took, I can’t know if he returns them all. But he’s a slip of a boy and although his jacket is big, he can’t lug out dozens of books. And I’ve had my eye on him. So if he’s stealing loads, I would notice. He isn’t stealing loads so, I’m not sure, but I think he returns all of them or, uh…” she faltered then finished, “the vast majority of them.”

  “If this is true, I’m uncertain how there’s a problem.”

  She pulled in a visibly deep breath.

  And then she let it out while informing him quietly, “He’s being beaten.”

  At that, Chace straightened from the door but he didn’t move from it as he whispered, “Beaten?”

  She nodded.

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Well, the bruise on his cheekbone I saw. And the other one around his jaw. And then there were the ones on his wrists. But today,” she swallowed, took a half step toward him, stopped and sucked in another breath before going on, “today, it was bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Eye swollen shut, bruises on his face, nose swollen and a gash on his lip that isn’t being treated.”

  “Fuck,” Cha
ce muttered.

  “It’s worse,” she whispered and Chace nodded to her to go on. “He… well, he’s very thin. And he’s not clean, as in, way not clean. And his clothes don’t fit him. And he’s very, very thin.”

  “You said that,” Chace noted quietly.

  “He’s so very, very thin, Chace, it bears repeating,” she said quietly back.

  Chace held her eyes and repeated his muttered, “Fuck.” Then he put his hands on his hips and asked, “You know this kid?”

  She shook her head.

  “Speak to him?” Chace continued.

  She shook her head again but replied, “Every time I’ve tried to approach, he runs away. I tried again today and chased him. He was terrified. He outran me then disappeared.”

  Jesus, she’d chased him? The town’s pretty, curvy, quiet librarian chased a kid?

  He verbalized his question. “You chased him?”

  “Yeah, out of the library and into town. He disappeared the minute he turned onto Main Street. Well, not the minute seeing as I was half a block behind him but close after. And I told him he wasn’t in trouble but he still ran.”

  “You chased him.” It was a statement this time.

  “Yeah,” she answered anyway then he watched her body give a small jolt and she whispered, “Oh no, was that the wrong thing to do?”

  “Sorry, honey, but you gotta know in case the opportunity comes up again. A kid being beaten and malnourished, which gives us an indication who’s likely beating him, and not taken care of, which pretty much solidifies who’s beating him, should not be chased. It’s clear he’s not livin’ a good life. It’s likely that life is filled with a good deal of fear. And him borrowin’ library books outside of acceptable practice says to me whatever’s happening at home means he doesn’t trust anyone so he takes every opportunity to dodge connecting even if it means checking out a library book.”

  As he spoke he saw her eyes had grown wide, her lips had parted and she was staring up at him with that appealing wonder she’d stared at him with yesterday morning.

  And alone in a small interrogation room while discussing an abused child it was far more appealing.

  Then she whispered her cute, “Oh.”