Chapter 20

847 words

"Please, Adam! Don't bother me!"

It was more a murmur than a full sentence. Jeannie shot the boy a glance, her eyes looking right through him. She got up and with short, uncertain steps made her way across the room to a piano. Seating herself and lifting her arms, she let her long fingers delicately brush over the keys. Taking a deep breath, next the distraught woman touched the ivories with more deliberation. The Moonlight Sonata took flight and filled the room in a somber dance. Jeannie's eyes were glassy and her fingers moved as though propelled by an outside force.

Adam watched and felt creeped out. Was this woman his mother? Sure, she was usually quiet; but this woman, she was like a ghost. And he'd never heard her play the piano before. They'd gotten the instrument for him to learn when he got older. But no one had shown interest in it other than to let it wait for him.

She didn't stop, launching into another piece when the first was finished, this time pounding the keys faster, too fast, producing a loud and discordant protest. It got louder, faster, crazed. Her fingers couldn't hit the keys any harder. It was too weird, more than Adam could take. His heart pounded and he turned and ran for the door. As he closed it, the boy wondered if the neighbors could hear the piano. Who gave a shit? He was just getting out of there. Shrugging his shoulders, he rushed down the street.

He was still hungry. Fishing in his pockets, his fingers wrapped around a few bills and some change, maybe enough for a hot dog and coke at Dairy Queen. He turned left onto the main street.

He was so lost in reliving what he'd just witnessed, he almost walked past the DQ, but a voice jarred him back to reality.

"Wow! I was hoping I'd find you here!" Elliot Taggart stood in front of him, grinning. "My mom was wacko tonight, so I climbed out my bedroom window and caught a bus here."

"Your mother! You should have seen mine!" Adam paused, his eyes drawn to the bright red line of dried blood on Elliot's arm. It glared in unmistakable alarm. "Did you hurt yourself!" he asked, nodding toward it.

"Yeah, scraped it on something!" Elliot looked away, toward the Dairy Queen. "Let's go inside."

Later, after they'd eaten, the boys sat quietly until Adam spoke, "I don't even want to go home tonight."

"I know what you mean. Neither do I." The memory of Trudy screeching at him invaded Elliot's mind.

"Where could we go?"

At a table across from them, a dull, unremarkable man sat, bearded, grungy, dressed in an all-too-common camouflage jacket and worn jeans. The man leaned forward, straining to listen to the boys. He was the sort of character, who if you saw him coming your way, you'd cross the street to avoid him. It was his eyes! Once he shot them your way, they stared without reserve, breaking all bounds, grilling, dissecting, analyzing, poking where they didn't belong.

And at a table in the corner, Gil Bettencourt sat hunched over a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Pencil in hand, he doodled on the page, sending curlicues across and up and down, obliterating the crossword puzzle and the rest of the page in the process. He, too, was listening to every word the boys said. And he kept an acute eye on the bearded man. Gil's dark, sharp Latino eyes took in everything.

The camouflaged man got up and walked to the boys, causing Gil to stiffen in his chair.

"Excuse me," the fellow said. He slid into an empty seat at the boys' table. "I heard you say you need a place to stay tonight. I have a room. I'm not using it. You could sleep there."

"Oh, I dunno," Adam said. "Where is it?"

"Right down the block."

Elliot had been listening. His interest obvious by the smile on his face. "Let's do it, Adam! It beats going home."

Adam shook his head. "I dunno. We shouldn't really go with strangers."

The guy piped in. "That's very wise. The way your parents have taught you to be careful. That's what I always told my own boy when he was growing up."

"You had a son!"

"Sure, he looked a lot like you. Say, do you like video games? I still have some he used to play with."

"Video games? Your son's?" Adam offered an eager smile. "But aren't they kind of ancient?"

A surprised expression passed the old man's face. "No, no! He's not that old. They're good games!"

The boys exchanged glances, the games having an obvious appeal.

Gil fell out of his chair in an undignified heap. His expression dulled, he stumbled toward the boys' table showing obvious signs of intoxication. He could only hope to be a distraction, enough to keep those boys from going with Jake Leichtenstein, a known pedophile and possibly a serial killer.