Chapter Eight

Jonas

I was getting nowhere fast, and I was ready to give up. What was the problem anyway? Was I wearing an invisible, “Don’t talk to me” sign? Jeez! Talk about a dead end! It was time to cut my losses, and come up with another plan. This one obviously wasn’t working. For all the good I’d done so far, I might as well be back at my desk tapping out another brilliant article about the latest bank robbery or home invasion or gang fight or…or…just fill in the blank with the headline of choice. My shoulders slumped with discouragement and I sighed, feeling beaten, practically incapacitated.

Heading through Chippewa Square, on the way to where I’d parked my car, I spotted a possible contact and decided to give it one last shot. Couldn’t hurt, right? The man was obviously homeless…dirty, clothes tattered and shabby, the typical metal cart stuffed with plastic bags pulled up next to the end of the bench where he sat hunched over a notebook, writing as if his life depended on it. Maybe I’d luck up, and this guy would actually talk to me.

The flicker of hope fizzled as soon as I got near enough to see what the man was doing. A double-page spread of indecipherable scribbles told me what I needed to know. I’d get no help from this one, either. I stared at the man, fuming…mad at everyone and everything. I was even angry at the dappled sunlight dancing around me on the sidewalk. How dare it look so happy? I raked a hand through my hair, frustrated beyond belief, then turned on my heel, muttering to myself as I continued on the way to my car. A flash of color in my peripheral caught my attention; a casual glance became a double-take that had me veering around the statue, pausing in front of a bronze plaque, pretending to read it, trying not to gawk.

A young, dark haired girl, wearing a blazing red sweatshirt, sat on a bench, nearly shoulder to shoulder with an elderly woman who was wearing an obscenely bright pink and green hat, practically capable of retinal burning. But it wasn’t the colors that grabbed my attention—okay…maybe initially that’s what did it, but what kept me staring was something entirely different. The older woman was homeless. If ragtag clothing and weird hat didn’t give her away, that two-wheeled metal cart sitting beside her sure did, but that wasn’t why I stared, either. No, it was because that homeless lady was talking—having an actual conversation—with the slim girl in the sweatshirt…who obviously wasn’t homeless.

It was hard to stay calm and unobtrusive when what I wanted to do was jump up and down, whooping and waving my arms in a victory dance. Though outwardly cool, my heart was pumping like a steam locomotive, making me feel like I’d just run the Rock and Roll Marathon. See…? I mentally sashayed, punching my cynical, glass-half-empty self in the shoulder…it is possible to get them to talk. Here’s proof in living color, and boy, did I ever mean color!

They were eating something—apples, from the looks of it—a companionable snack between friends. Were they friends? They both seemed pretty relaxed. Their body language had an open, friendly feeling, but how had it happened? How had that girl broken through the wall when I couldn’t? I wished I could hear what they were saying, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by moving any closer.

I eyed the girl, fighting a touch of jealousy. She looked familiar. I’d seen her somewhere before…and recently. Where? It wouldn’t come to me. Maybe later.

What was her secret, anyway? What did she have that I didn’t? Maybe I’d learn something useful if I just watched her a while. Yes, that’s what I’d do…watch and learn.

****

The girl was an artist—the drawing pad in her hand gave that part away. I’d be willing to bet she was a SCAD student, though she looked too young to be in college. Slender, graceful…like a wood nymph or a fairy. Not big as a minute, as my dad would say. Maybe she looked older up close. Was that the SCAD insignia on her sweatshirt? It was. Okay, so…yes, she was probably a student there, but that still didn’t answer the burning question: how had she broken through the invisible barrier I’d been encountering everywhere I’d turned? Guess I needed to keep on watching.

Uh-oh…they stopped. I ducked into a doorway so they wouldn’t notice me. Peeking around the corner, I could see the young girl leaning against a stair railing, holding her sketch pad across her left arm. Her right hand held a pencil that swept broad, sure strokes across the page, supposedly capturing her subject in black and white, but I couldn’t tell for sure from where I stood.

Wait a minute! What was the old woman doing? She’d pulled out a sparkly bag and was reaching into it, pulling out a handful of whatever was inside. Now she was…sprinkling it around a parking meter?

Huh?

I fidgeted, waiting impatiently for them to move on, curious to see what that stuff was. It was several minutes before they moved down the street, allowing me the chance to vacate my hiding place. I approached the parking meter and stared.

Um…yeah.

Guess it was safe to say that more than just the old lady’s hat was weird.

****

I was sitting inside Panera, spooning thick chowder into my mouth as quickly as possible. Sunlight poured through the window, painting a warm, yellow band across my table. My speedy eating had a two-fold cause. One…I was famished. The only thing I’d had for breakfast was an oatmeal bar and a cup of coffee as I headed out the door, and two…I wanted to make sure I finished my meal before my targets finished theirs. On the other side of the glass, two heads were bent over their own lunch; one glossy brown, the other capped in lurid colors that would look right at home in an LSD hallucination.

I broke off a hunk of bread, soaking up the remnants of my soup, then popped it into my mouth, chewing slowly, staring at the two outside. I couldn’t help it. The longer I watched, the more it piqued my interest. What a mismatched pair! What on earth had brought these two together? All my stalking still hadn’t answered that question. I’d been around enough affluent folks in my life to be pretty good at judging who came from money and who just wanted people to think they came from money. The girl was in the first category, and as a general rule, there wasn’t a lot of intermingling between her group and the homeless. So…there must be a very good reason for them to be together, but what could it be? My writer’s curiosity trekked down several unlikely paths, rejecting each one and returning to contemplate some more.

The girl had been drawing the older woman. Could that be it? Maybe a class assignment? Possible. I studied her profile, her animated expression. She didn’t look like she was being forced to do something she didn’t want to do. On the contrary, she was enjoying herself, and…wow! Now that I could see her better—her profile rather than a back view—she really was a pretty little thing. She—

Cut it out, Holmes! Don’t get sidetracked. You don’t have time for that. Remember the article you’re writing. Syndication…think syndication…stay on track.

Right.

It looked like they were almost finished, which meant it was nearly game time. My plan was a back door approach, get to the older woman through the younger one. All I had to do was somehow convince her to help me. Piece of cake, right? So how come I wasn’t oozing confidence? Probably due to the fact that all of my other interview attempts had crashed and burned.

I slurped the last of my drink before gathering my trash, and heading toward the exit. After sliding the tray’s contents into the can and adding my tray to the stack already there, I drew a deep breath, muttered, “Here goes nothing,” and pushed out into the bright sunshine.

I reached out to tap the girl on the shoulder, startled at the jolt that rocketed through my hand. What was—No! Figure it out later. “Excuse me, Miss?”

She whirled to face me, squinting through unbelievably long, thick lashes. The sun was blinding her.

“Oh, sorry!” I turned her to face away from the glare. “Better?”

“You!” I gasped. It was the girl who’d crashed into me while I was doing that interview about the bike thefts at SCAD. The most amazing set of eyes I’d ever seen stared up at me. Dark-lashed, turquoise…dazzling. She had perfect features, a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks now suffused pink with embarrassment; soft lips that were curved into an enchanting smile.

I stared—I think my face still wore a smile, but my inner self was absolutely slack-jawed…dumbfounded. For a long second, I forgot how to speak. Heck…I almost forgot how to breathe. I hadn’t felt like this since—who was I kidding? I’d never felt so bowled over before! When my sluggish brain finally kicked back into gear, a single thought flashed red, over and over like a railroad warning: Danger, danger, danger!

“What?” The old woman growled, breaking the spell.

“Uh…sorry. My name is Jonas Holmes.” Numb fingers fumbled in my shirt pocket, trying to locate the business cards that I knew were there, but couldn’t feel. “I’m a reporter for the Savannah Tribune…”

****

Later, I tried to remember the rest of the conversation I’d had with Cleo and Lily, but it was mostly a blur. The gist of it was that I’d be meeting them later. I grinned at the thought, but then I gave myself a mental head smack. Get a grip, man!

The meeting place was an alley where Lily had seen a homeless man being beat up. It wasn’t much, but it was a better lead than anything else I’d come up with in over a week, and it meant I’d get to see Cleo again. That was the good part. The downside was that the old woman didn’t like me. I know, I know…what’s not to like? But she didn’t. At all. The negative feelings had been instantaneous, and as far as I could tell, it wasn’t from anything I’d done. Maybe she had something against men.

Whatever the reason, it made things tricky. It meant a tight-rope walk for me if I wanted to work with them. And since I saw no other means of getting any help with my story, I guess I needed to find an umbrella or some sort of pole to help me keep my balance. I was definitely going to need it.

My thoughts were interrupted by my cell phone. My brother, Andrew…the pediatrician. What did he want?

I answered. “What’s up, bro?”

“Just checking on you, man.”

“I’m fine. Did mom put you up to this?”

“Do I have to have a reason to call my brother?”

I rolled my eyes. “No back-peddling. You said “check on,” not “call.” And since when do you ever check on me unless coerced by mom?”

“Technicalities. I’m crushed, but yeah…mom might’ve mentioned you were a bit down…you know…three years since the Jill thing.”

“I’m fine,” I repeated. “And I’d be a lot finer if you guys would give it a rest. I mean, I’m glad you’re concerned and all, but honestly…I really am fine.”

“Okay, okay. I get the message. I’ll try to convince mom to back off.”

“Good luck with that, but give it a shot.”

“Job going all right?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. I’m working on a pretty big story right now. Have a meeting with a source later on tonight.”

“A source, huh?”

“Yeah, tracking down leads on homeless men who keep ending up in the river.”

“Oh, yeah. I heard something about that on the news. You mean there’s more to it?”

“That’s what my gut’s telling me. Plus, I’ve got a source I’m checking out. I’ll let you know.”

“Again with the source? What kind of source are we talking about?”

“A homeless woman, and before you ask…she’s old. I’m supposed to meet her and her friend when it gets dark.”

“Is the friend old too?”

“Um…why do you ask?”

Andrew laughed. “Curiosity more than anything. You sound different, and I’m trying to figure out the cause.”

“I’m just feeling good about this assignment, that’s all.”

“Whatever you say.” He sounded unconvinced. “Well, be careful. Anything you want me to pass on to mom?”

“Just get her to stop worrying.”

Andrew laughed again. “Like that’s going to happen.”

“I know, right? Well, give her my love, then.”

“Will do. See ya, man.”

“Bye.”

I shook my head with a rueful smile, as I hung up. Moms…can’t live with them, can’t live without them.