“I ain’t talkin’ ’til I git a lawyer.” Skip folded his arms an’ stood with his feet braced like a yearlin’ mule. “I got rights.”
I had to fight hard to keep from grinnin’. But the boy’d be dangerous as Ash if someone didn’t set him straight soon, an’ that wasn’t funny. “Is ’at so?” I said. “You been watchin’ too much TV, boy. Bein’ a minor, you got only whatever rights I say.”
I could see his attitude waver a bit, so I figgered I’d throw him off by changin’ tactics. I sat back agin the edge of my desk an’ said, “What do you think I oughtta do with you?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, what’d you do to someone you caught stealin’ your car?”
“Wasn’t your car.” I gave him a look, an’ he said, “Prob’ly kill ’im.”
I didn’t come back at that, an’ after a time, the weight on his conscience did the job for me. He got red, then redder. Finally, he blurted out, “I jus’ needed a ride, an’ wouldn’t nobody pick me up. An’ the turkey was jus’ beggin’ me to take his car—leavin’ the keys in …”
I nodded; made sense to me. “Why’d you leave the mission?”
“I been hearin’ all kinds a rumors ’bout people disappearin’—Mr. D. an’ Angie. An’ I heard you found a dead guy—murdered—an’ I jus’ had’a find out what’s goin’ on.”
I nodded again. “That still leaves us with what to do with you. You’re a minor, so it looks like it’s gonna be reform school.”
“I’ll be good. Mr. Moody would give me another chance if you axed him.”
“Mebbe. But why should I stick my neck out for a car thief?”
“I was jus’ borrowin’ it. Didn’t you ever ‘borrow’ a car when you were a kid?’
Well, that got me. “I plead the fifth.”
He grinned. “I won’t do it again if you give me another chance.”
“Your word on it?”
“Cross my heart’n hope to—” I fixed him with a look. “My word.”
“Okay. We just gotta convince the state police they oughtta drop the charges.”
“You think you can?”
“Mebbe. ’Course, you screw up again, they’ll kill both of us.”
Two hours later, when he come back for his “prisoner,” Sergeant Underhill was still steamed.
“Dan,” I told him, “it seems to me leavin’ your keys in is contributin’ to the delinquency of a minor chile. An’ if you prosecute for car theft, it’s gonna get all over that you left your car unattended against state law an’ department policy. Press’d love to get their hooks on a story like that. An’ if they did, County Welfare’d have to press charges.”
“Whose side are you on, Deputy?”
“I’m a officer of the law. I ain’t s’posed to take sides.”
“Well, who’s gonna tell ’em?”
“I am,” Skip piped up.
“Stay outta this, young ’un,” I said. “Well, Dan?”
He looked at me like I was a shady car salesman with a lemon to unload. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Skip here’s a genuine phenomena—first member of his clan’s got a shot at goin’ to college. An’ bein’ as he ain’t stupid, I figger he won’t blow it by stealin’ no more cars.”
“What’s to guarantee that?”
“What if I agree to be his parole officer?”
Underhill shook his head. “He doesn’t need a parole officer. He needs a keeper. The Reverend Mr. Moody said don’t bring him back.”
“Okay.”
“You nuts?”
“I’ll try almost anythin’ once. You agree to suspend charges, I’ll take custody ’til he’s eighteen.”
“What about Child Welfare?”
“They’ll be happy to have someone they can sucker into takin’ ’im.”
Underhill thought about it for all of thirty seconds. “Done! God help you.” He turned to Skip, whose jawed nearly dislocated fallin’ open. “Just remember, we’re only gonna suspend charges. You keep your nose clean or we’ll throw the book at you.”
Which is how, in the middle of everythin’ else, I become a foster dad.