Lost Cause. Janice Johnson Kay

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СКАЧАТЬ her own garage door.

      GARY WATCHED the saw buzz through the dirty plaster of his cast. The leg that emerged was fish-belly white except for the angry red rash that had caused godawful itching. He leaned over and ran a hand down his shin.

      “Well, it’s still there.”

      The nurse or technician or whatever he was glanced up with a grin. “Seeing your toes didn’t convince you? What about the itch?”

      “Could have been a phantom itch.” Gary flexed his foot and grimaced at the weakness in muscles he’d taken for granted. “Damn, I’m glad to get rid of that.”

      “I haven’t seen a patient yet mourn the loss of a cast. Except for the teenagers who want to take it home because all their friends wrote on it.”

      They both looked at Gary’s cast. Nobody had written on it.

      “You’re welcome to chuck mine in the Dumpster.” He bent to put on the sock and boot he’d brought and then stood up, the slit leg of his jeans flapping. “Thanks,” he said with a nod, and walked out, trying not to limp.

      Well, that had been a long three months. He’d been able to ride his bike, but he’d felt clumsy with the crutches, and the walking cast hadn’t been much better. At least the bruises that had decorated his body and face had finished blooming as colorfully as the desert after a rare cloudburst and finally faded from puce to yellow to skin color. His leather pants and jacket had protected him from being skinned alive, although they’d had to cut those off him and throw them away, another loss. Heck, he could even take a deep breath now without wanting to puke.

      The doctor had talked about him going to physical therapy for several months, but Gary was thinking he’d find out what he had to do and carry it out on his own. He did most things on his own. He didn’t feel any need for a cheerleader.

      Besides, he’d been considering a trip. What better time? While convalescing, he’d discovered he was curious about these sisters it seemed he had. One who was apparently going to be heartbroken because he hadn’t been real excited about some kind of reunion, and the other who’d wanted to chew a strip off him because he was being selfish enough to tell them to leave him alone.

      Funny thing, since he’d gotten first the call from the P.I. and then the one from the sister—Carrie, he thought her name was—he’d found he did remember them. Or at least he thought he did. His memories from before he went to live with the Lindstroms in Bakersfield had a hazy, dreamlike quality.

      He supposed he’d lived in a foster home, too; maybe a couple, for all he knew. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure which people were the family he’d lost and which were foster families. But sometimes he saw this woman, pretty and dark-haired, smiling as she bent to swoop him up. There’d been a girl, too, dark-haired and skinny. And a baby. He had this memory of crying in terror when someone tried to get him to go to bed in a room by himself. He wanted to stay with… He didn’t know. The baby sister? Well, that made sense. From what the P.I. and this Carrie had said, the two of them had been taken away and then adopted out, and the big sister got to stay with family.

      And he was supposed to worry about hurting her. Gary grunted and shook his head.

      But he guessed the fact that she’d gotten the breaks wasn’t her fault. And chasing memories that refused to be caught was getting old.

      So he figured he’d take a ride cross-country to Washington state, maybe stay a couple of weeks, talk to this Carrie and…Suzanne? yeah, Suzanne, a few times, hear the real story.

      Then figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life that would keep him from flying over the guardrail the next time, into the welcoming darkness.

      CHAPTER TWO

      REBECCA WILSON LOOKED forward to this home visit. She’d scheduled it almost three weeks ago, so she had reread the file this morning. Once again, she liked what it said about Suzanne Chauvin, especially her open attitude about what age or gender or race of child she’d take. So many people acted as if they were shopping for a garment of a particular color and style.

      “We’d consider a girl up to two and a half,” they’d say. Two and three-quarters would apparently be too old. “We’d like fair skin. Nobody in our family can even tan! Blond would be great. And blue eyes.”

      She could tell that they were really envisioning a baby. Their ideal. Which left her wondering: Would they be disappointed by a healthy, happy two-year-old with brown hair, hazel eyes and a golden tint to her skin?

      Oh, well. Rebecca understood the desire to adopt a child who looked as if she could be yours. Nonetheless, she was grateful for the occasional parents-to-be who just wanted a kid to love and didn’t care if people could tell their children were adopted.

      She glanced again at the map of Edmonds in the Thomas Guide that lay open on the seat beside her. If she turned up ahead…

      Edmonds was so pretty. Climbing a hillside rising from Puget Sound were neighborhoods of a mix of older and new homes, many on lots terraced by stone or cement retaining walls. Even several of the more modest houses had peekaboo views of the Sound, blue and choppy today, the green-and-white Washington State ferries that arrived and departed every forty-five minutes, and the Olympic Mountains on the other side, already white-capped in mid-October. Rebecca wished she could afford to live here, rather than in her small condo in Lynnwood within earshot of I-5 and night-and-day traffic.

      But social work of any kind didn’t pay that well, even though she had a master’s degree. It would help if she’d stayed put rather than changing jobs, but after three years of dealing with an overwhelming caseload of abused and neglected children and their horrifically dysfunctional families, she hadn’t been able to handle the stress anymore. What she’d done there had been so important, she felt guilty for quitting.

      She kept telling herself this job was a break. A vacation. She’d be ready again someday to rescue children from the parents they loved desperately despite the blows and the filthy homes and the nights huddled alone because Mommy hadn’t come home. But not yet.

      She turned onto the street and looked eagerly ahead. Halfway down the block…yes, it was the gray rambler with white trim, dwarfed by the two-story next door. The house was friendly-looking, Rebecca decided immediately, before laughing at herself. Way to jump to conclusions!

      As she approached from one direction, she noticed a gleaming black-and-chrome motorcycle coming from the other way, the powerful roar out of place on this quiet street. The rider was going slowly, just as she’d been, as if also scanning house numbers. When she pulled to the curb, he did the same, swerving onto her side of the street and stopping with the front tire of his bike only a few feet from her front bumper.

      She turned off the engine and checked in the rearview mirror to be sure her makeup was intact and her shoulder-length, copper-red hair was smooth. As she reached for her briefcase, she saw him set the kickstand and swing his leg over the back of the bike. He pulled the helmet from his head and hung it over the handle bar. Although he wasn’t obvious about it, she had the feeling he was watching her, which made her nervous. Without standing next to him, she couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think he was a huge man. Still, there was something…tough about him. His dark, straight hair was shaggy, his blue jeans and black leather jacket well worn, his gaze narrow-eyed and…well, she couldn’t tell whether he was wary, hostile or just naturally unfriendly looking.

      Was he Suzanne Chauvin’s boyfriend? СКАЧАТЬ