Chapter 22

 

Gritting his teeth against a stomach-churning swirl of vertigo and pain, Harry stayed on his feet until he reached the couch. He allowed a groan to escape his lips as he collapsed, face down, along its length.

Let the woman see how sick he was. He felt a bit of strength returning—and he’d need it all to get rid of her. He’d slake his anger in the process. Overpowering her would be easier if she had no warning.

So the drug lord had goons watching the place. Probably to get rid of the car once he’d gone, maybe even clean up any evidence. Including the body. Bet there’d be an extra charge added to his escape cost for that.

They’d scared her, bringing her back. Good. He’d scare her more before he finished with her. Stupid sheep—how long did she plan to hang around to see if he got better? And why hadn’t she stuck a knife in him while he was out of it?

He felt himself drifting toward sleep and anxiety clutched his chest. What other tortured memories lurked in the dark corners of his dreams? Better to keep awake, even with his self-appointed nurse’s preaching.

Harry scowled into his cushion. No, he probably couldn’t kill her in cold blood, but that didn’t matter. She’d given him enough fuel to stoke his rage. Just let him get his hands on her, and he’d show her—and that God of hers.

Anger eclipsed his fears, and his battered brain forgot the battle to stay alert. At first he slept, body and mind resting undisturbed. Eventually he drifted into semi-wakefulness, and his thoughts wandered, sifting memories, revisiting places he thought he’d buried.

He was a pre-teen again, pushing his limits dangerously far, trying to prove... what?

Too much had happened before his mother’s death for his family to pick up the pieces and move on. Two years after the tragedy, each one still dealt with their common grief alone. Carol played the model teen in her father’s presence, but Harry heard the rumours at school and didn’t trust the look of her new friends.

She’d pulled away from him as well as from their father. It should have hurt more, but Harry was already numb. He spent as much time as possible away from home. Pick-up basketball games, hanging out with friends at the mall, long solitary bike rides. Anything to keep moving, keep his mind off the void in his heart.

A few of his teachers urged him to try harder at school. Some of his crowd prodded him to graduate from the occasional illicit cigarette to street drugs. Others taunted that he wasn’t cool enough to shoplift.

Harry ignored them all. There was no point in listening. He didn’t care what they thought. He simply didn’t care.

His father hadn’t seemed to care either, and somehow that made things worse. What would it take to force a reaction from him? To Harry’s mind, even an abusive parent would be better than an emotionally absent one. He’d lost both of his parents that terrible day.

He saw how hard his father worked to provide for them physically, but if Dad recognized his children’s pain, he made no effort to ease it. Mom’s name was never spoken.

From time to time Harry’s bicycle rovings led past the garage where his father worked. One humid summer day he noticed a low tire and stopped for air. Harry drifted inside for a can of orange soda. Before he finished, his dad entered from the service bays, wiping oily hands on a stained cloth.

Suspicion flared in Dad’s eyes. He walked over to Harry. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I was out on my bike, and I got thirsty.” Harry dragged his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.

His father’s expression relaxed, but he made no effort to move. Harry gulped his soda, wishing he hadn’t stopped. There were other stations where he could have filled his tire. Why had he come here?

“Going somewhere?”

“Nowhere special. I won’t be late.” Harry tossed the empty can into the trash and edged toward the door.

“Want to stick around? I’ve got one more job, then I can drive you home.”

Harry stared at his father. He couldn’t tell much from the neutral tone. Was this just what the words said, a break on a hot day, or could it be an offer of companionship? He scuffed the toe of one dirty running shoe along the floor.

“Well, okay. If you’re sure you won’t be long.” He had nothing better to do, anyway.

His dad snatched the work order for his next assignment, then turned and jerked his head in the direction of the service bays. “Come on through.”

Harry followed wordlessly into the din and leaned against a clear spot of wall beside his father’s dented red tool chest. He knew the safety rules back here, though he hadn’t been inside very often.

With an ear-splitting roar, Dad backed a gleaming, late-model Cadillac into his bay. His hand lingered on the deep blue paint of the hood before he raised the car on the hoist. Harry paid little attention to his father’s movements as Dad installed a new muffler.

When the car was finally lowered to the ground, Dad started the engine. He stood still, head tilted to one side like a robin on the hunt. Harry leaned his head back against the wall. He knew that look. They could be here for a while.

Dad’s frown faded. Killing the engine, he turned to the tool chest and grabbed what he needed. He spared a brief smile for Harry, and ducked under the engine hood.

Resigning himself to more waiting, Harry slid to a sitting position on the floor. His father surfaced a few times to start the engine. At last he nodded. To Harry, it sounded the same.

“Tourist car.” Dad pointed to the North Carolina license plate. “Too far to run with a rough engine.”

Harry pushed to his feet. As if that justified sweating an extra half hour in this noisy hole. He wandered back into the store while his father parked the car outside and cleaned up his workspace.

Two men entered as Harry finished an ice cream on a stick. He eyed them indifferently. One wore a blue chauffeur’s uniform, the other, immaculately pressed cotton trousers and a soft-looking pale green shirt. The land-yacht’s owner, here to collect it.

Harry studied them as the American spoke to the garage owner. Living in a run-down part of the city, he didn’t see many rich people. This man was quiet and authoritative, not pushy and arrogant like the stereotypes on television.

Dad came through the connecting doors. Harry moved toward the exit, but his father approached the group at the counter. Harry waited, one hand on the door, stifling the urge to storm off on his bike. Surely it couldn’t be much longer.

“I adjusted the timing a bit, Mr. Delaney. She was running rough. Sweet as can be, now.”

The owner’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “I see. And how much extra is that going to run me?”

“Nothing, sir.” Dad sounded surprised. “No parts involved, and she was my last job of the day. Couldn’t have you travelling far that way, so I went ahead with it.”

Harry caught the American’s look of surprise. Delaney extended his hand. “Well, thank you very much. I appreciate it.”

Dad showed his grease-stained palm. “Can’t shake without a good scrub. It was nothing. Pleasure to work on a quality engine.”

Mr. Delaney clasped the work-roughened hand in a firm, brief shake. Dad reddened. Released, he brushed past Harry into the bright sunlight.

Harry kicked at a stray piece of gravel as his father loaded the bicycle into the trunk of the car. How could a man understand the inner workings of a machine so clearly, yet not see the wounds in his own son’s life? He slammed the car door and slumped down in his seat.

He sulked through the short drive home, ignoring his father’s tentative attempts at conversation. Supper, as always, was strained. As soon as he finished his turn with the kitchen clean-up, Harry shot out the back door.

The angst inside him grew, and restlessness drove him mercilessly. September came, but the start of school did nothing to help. Cutting classes and wasting time weren’t enough anymore. A destructive anger simmered in his heart.

One evening the phone rang in the middle of supper. Carol scooped it from the wall cradle, then turned to their father. “It’s for you.”

Dad pushed his chair back and walked to the phone. “Hello? Yes, it is.” His face tightened, lines of emotion etching themselves around his mouth and eyes. The eyes targeted Harry, fixing him to his chair.

Harry’s heart jumped like a scared rabbit. He’d provoked a response from his father at last. He heard the principal’s deep tones describing the smashed windows and spray-painted obscenities on the school walls. And the two-week suspension from classes.

Dad’s free fist clenched. “I see.” His voice was dangerously quiet. “I’ll deal with him.” He slammed the receiver into its cradle.

Carol shoved the rest of her meal into her mouth and stood before she finished chewing. “Excuse me. Homework.” She cleared her place at the table and fled.

Harry knew better than to move. He drummed his fingers under the edges of his chair to release some of his anxiety as he waited for his father to react.

Dad ignored him. He pulled a card from his wallet and picked up the phone again. After he dialled, he stood twisting the cord around one hand. “Room 347, please.”

Curiosity threaded Harry’s fear.

“Matt Silver calling, sir. About that job. I’ll take it.”

Harry’s mouth hung open. His father exchanged a few more words and jotted something on the back of the card with a pencil stub. When he hung up, he turned blazing eyes full upon Harry.

“We’re moving to the States. You’re going from bad to worse, son.” His voice faltered. The fleeting glimpse of pain in the quiet man’s eyes pierced Harry’s heart. His father did care.

Anger surged, helping him brace for the coming discipline. Caring wasn’t much use if a person didn’t do anything about it. He scowled down at his half-empty plate, stomach filled with lead-winged butterflies.

His father returned to the table, but made no pretense of eating. “The only time you leave this house before we move will be to go to school—once they let you go back.”

Dad gave his notice at the garage, unmoved by pleas from his boss to stay. Harry discovered the job offer had come from the wealthy American tourist he’d seen at the garage in the summer.

Mr. Delaney was back in town on a business trip, bringing another fancy car for Dad’s wizard touch. He’d offered Matt a job this time. Harry learned later it was his father’s attitude as well as his instinct with engines that impressed the older man.

In Delaney’s world, most strangers were either intimidated by his money or after a share of it. Matt Silver was fascinated by the powerful engine, but completely indifferent to its owner’s net worth.

The next month snailed past. Harry obeyed his curfew, and caused no more trouble at school. What was the point? The anger he’d clung to had no power to save him from the hollow darkness inside. Sure he’d forced a reaction from his father, but that got him what? Nothing.

He avoided his friends and ignored his teachers, putting in time. He might not care what he was moving to, but each day meant one closer to moving from this place and all the misery it piled up around him.

On his last day he turned in his books and collected his transcript and papers from the office. Goodbye and thanks for nothing. Heading for the main exit, he heard “Harry—wait.”

He huffed a sigh, but his feet stopped, and he turned to the thin, bearded man hurrying toward him. Mr. Barnaby, the one teacher he sort of respected. The one who always looked him in the eye and saw a fellow human instead of a child. Who hadn’t approved of his vandalism but who still spoke to him kindly.

Mr. Barnaby stepped up to him now and gripped his shoulders. “I wish you all the best, Harry. Take this move as an opportunity to make a fresh start. You have too much potential to waste yourself like you’ve been doing here.”

The teacher’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I know English isn’t your thing, but you have a quick mind. When the right thing catches your interest, you’ll go far.”

The words stuck in Harry’s head. No one had believed in him since his mother died.