A Creed in Stone Creek Part 3

Steven ruffled the boy's hair. "Sure," he said.

His room was smaller. There was a slight slant to the floor, and the wallpaper hung down in big, untidy loops.

Steven thought of his expensive condominium in Denver and wanted to laugh. There, he'd had a fine view of the city, skylights and a retractable TV screen that disappeared into the ceiling at the push of a b.u.t.ton.

What a contrast.

"It's not so bad," Matt decided, taking in the results of years of dedicated neglect.

Steven rubbed his chin, considering options. "I guess we could go back to town and buy ourselves a tent," he said. "The weather's good, so we could take baths in the creek. Carry our own water, cook over a campfire, sleep under the stars. Back to the land and all that."

Matt grinned. "Awesome," he said. "Let's go buy a tent."

"Better unload the camping gear and the grub first," Steven answered. "If we don't, there won't be room in the truck for a tent."

"They don't come all set up, silly," Matt informed him as the two of them headed back through the house, toward the kitchen door. "They're sold in boxes. boxes."

"Thanks for bringing me up to speed on that one," Steven said, mussing Matt's hair once again.

Matt supervised while Steven carried in suitcases, supplies of dried and canned food, sleeping bags and the camp stove, piling everything in the kitchen.

He returned to find Matt standing in the bed of the truck, one hand shading his eyes from the sun, following a trail of dust down on the road.

"Look," the boy cried, sounding delighted. "Somebody's coming!"

Steven was relieved when the rig, a big, fancy red truck, turned in at their driveway. Matt would have been pretty disappointed if they'd gone on by, whoever they were.

He recognized his cousin Meg right away. She leaned out the window on the pa.s.senger side and waved, beaming, her bright blond hair catching the dusty light. Her husband, Brad, was at the wheel.

As soon as the truck came to a stop, Meg was out, sprinting across the yard to throw her arms around Steven's neck. "You're here!" she cried.

Steven laughed. It had been a while since he'd felt this welcome anyplace.

Matt scrambled down out of the truck bed, eager for company.

Brad unfolded his long, lanky frame from the interior of the pickup and approached, and the two men shook hands while Meg bent to look into Matt's eyes and smile.

"You must be Matt," she said.

Matt nodded. "And you must be Steven's cousin," he replied. "I forget your name, though."

"Meg," she said gently.

Brad, looking like a rancher in his old jeans, long-sleeved chambray work s.h.i.+rt and ancient boots, jabbed a thumb in the direction of the house and said, "Looks like this place is in even worse shape than I thought."

Meg surveyed it with her hands resting on her trim, blue-jeaned hips. Her white cotton top was fitted and sleeveless, and it didn't seem possible that she was old enough to be married, let alone the mother of a couple of kids.

She could have pa.s.sed for seventeen.

"Brad O'Ballivan," she scolded, sounding wholly good-natured, "I've told you a thousand times that it's a train wreck over here."

Brad grinned. "It's better than the barn, though," he drawled.

Matt had recognized him by then. "Are you that famous guy who's on TV sometimes?" he asked. Before Brad could answer, he went on. "We know somebody else else with the same last name as yours. Melissa." with the same last name as yours. Melissa."

"Melissa is my sister," Brad said, obviously enjoying the exchange.

"You have a sister?" Matt made it sound like the eighth wonder. He was an only child, of course, and so was Steven. Did the child long for a sister, the way Steven himself had, growing up?

Brad crouched, so he could look directly into Matt's face. "Actually," he said, "I have three three sisters. There's Olivia-she's a veterinarian and she can talk to animals. And Ashley-she and Melissa are twins." sisters. There's Olivia-she's a veterinarian and she can talk to animals. And Ashley-she and Melissa are twins."

Steven felt a pang at the mention of twins, the way he always did when the subject came up. It made him think of his cousins Conner and Brody and their complex family history. They were a matched set, those two.

"Do they look alike?" Matt asked. "Ashley and Melissa?"

"Nope," Brad answered. "They're not those kind of twins."

"Oh," Matt said, absorbing the information. Then he brightened, looking from Brad, who straightened to his full height and must have looked pretty tall to the child against that sunlit Arizona sky, to Meg, then back again. "You're famous, though, huh?"

"Yeah," Brad admitted, sounding almost shy. "Sort of."

Matt nodded and moved on, over the celebrity aspect of the encounter, evidently. "We're going to get a tent and camp out!" he announced. "And we're adopting a dog, dog, too!" too!"

Meg beamed. "That's great," she said.

Matt absorbed her approval like it was sunlight.

"You could use Brad's old tour bus," she told Steven, a few moments later. The two of them had only known each other for about six months; turned out Meg was something of an amateur genealogist, and she'd tracked him down on the internet and sent him an email. Steven didn't have a lot of kin, and he wasn't taking any chances on alienating his cousin by imposing on her generosity.

Brad nodded, though, and rested a light hand against the small of Meg's back. "That's a good idea," he said, before Steven could get a word out. "It's pretty well-equipped, and n.o.body's used it in a while."

Steven opened his mouth to say something along the lines of "It's okay, I appreciate the offer, but the tent will be fine for now," but Meg already had her cell phone out. She dialed, stuck a finger in her free ear, smiling fit to blow every transformer within a fifty-mile radius and asked whoever was on the other end to please bring the bus next door.

Brad, meanwhile, had wandered over to look at the barn. Or what was left of it, anyway. "Good for firewood and not much else," he said, scanning the ruins.

Steven nodded in agreement, shoved a hand through his hair. "Listen, about the bus, I wouldn't want you and Meg going to a lot trouble. We'll be okay with a tent...."

Brad listened, grinning. But he was shaking his head the whole time.

Steven's protest fell away when he heard Matt give a peal of happy laughter. He glanced in the boy's direction and saw that Meg was leaning down again, her hands braced on her thighs, so she could look into Matt's eyes. Her own were dancing with delight.

Matt must have told her one of his infamous knock-knock jokes, Steven thought. The kid did tend to laugh at his own jokes.

"Never look a gift bus in the grillwork," Brad said.

Steven looked back at him, blinked. "Huh?"

Brad laughed. "Never mind," he said, and started off toward Meg again.

It was almost as though the two of them were magnetized to each other, Steven observed, feeling just a little envious.

Ten minutes later, the gleaming bus was rolling up the driveway, and it was a thing of beauty.

CHAPTER THREE.

IT WAS 5:30 5:30 P.M., P.M., by Melissa's watch. The bus from Tucson and Phoenix would have disgorged any pa.s.sengers it might be carrying-Byron Cahill, for instance-at 5:00 sharp, before heading on to Indian Rock and then making a swing back to stop in Flagstaff and heading south again. She was familiar with the bus route because she'd ridden it so often, as a college student, when she couldn't afford a car. by Melissa's watch. The bus from Tucson and Phoenix would have disgorged any pa.s.sengers it might be carrying-Byron Cahill, for instance-at 5:00 sharp, before heading on to Indian Rock and then making a swing back to stop in Flagstaff and heading south again. She was familiar with the bus route because she'd ridden it so often, as a college student, when she couldn't afford a car.

Although she usually looked forward to going home after work, today was different. Home sounded like a lonely place, since there wouldn't be anybody there waiting for her.

Maybe, she thought, she should give in to Olivia's constant nagging-well, okay, Olivia didn't exactly nag; nag; she just she just suggested suggested things in a big-sister kind of way-and adopt a cat or a dog. Or both. things in a big-sister kind of way-and adopt a cat or a dog. Or both.

Just the thought of all that fur and pet dander made her sneeze, loudly and with vigor. Since she'd been tested for allergies more than once, and the results were consistently negative, Melissa secretly thought Olivia and Ashley might be right-her sensitivities were psychosomatic. Deep down, her sisters agreed, Melissa was afraid to open her heart, lest it be broken. It was a wonder, they further maintained, that she didn't sneeze whenever she encountered a man, given her wariness in the arena of love and romance.

There might be some truth to that theory, too, she thought now. She adored the children in the family, and that felt risky enough, considering the shape the world was in.

How could she afford to love a man? Or compound her fretful concerns by letting herself care for an animal? Especially considering that critters had very short life spans, compared to humans.

Feeling a little demoralized, Melissa logged off her computer, pulled her purse from the large bottom drawer of her desk, and sighed with relief because the workday was over. Not that she'd really done much work.

It troubled her conscience, accepting a paycheck mostly for warming a desk chair all day; in the O'Ballivan family, going clear back to old Sam, the founding father of today's ever-expanding clan, character was measured by the kind of contribution contribution a person made. Slackers were not admired. a person made. Slackers were not admired.

Telling herself she didn't need to be admired anyway, dammit, Melissa left her office, locking up behind her. She paused, pa.s.sing Andrea's deserted desk, frowned at the ivy plant slowly drying up in one corner.

It wasn't her plant, she reminded herself.

It is a living thing, and it is thirsty, that self retorted silently. that self retorted silently.

With a sigh, Melissa put down her purse, searched until she found the empty coffee tin Andrea used as a watering can-when she remembered to water the indoor foliage, which was a c.r.a.pshoot-filled the humble vessel at the sink in the women's restroom, returned to the cubicle and carefully doused the ivy.

It seemed to rally, right before her eyes, that bedraggled snippet of greenery, standing up a little straighter, stretching its fragile limbs a bit wider instead of shriveling. Melissa made a mental note to speak to Andrea about the subtleties of responsibility-she wasn't a bad kid. Just sort of-distracted all the time. And little wonder, given all she'd been through. all the time. And little wonder, given all she'd been through.

Andrea had arrived in Stone Creek as a runaway, when she was just fourteen, riding the same bus that had probably brought Byron Cahill back to town that very afternoon. Out of money and out of options, she'd spent her first night sleeping behind the potted rosebushes in the garden center at the local discount store.

Upon discovering her there, first thing the next morning, the clerk had called Tom Parker, a natural thing to do. Especially since Andrea sat cross-legged against the wall, stubbornly refusing to come out.

Tom had soon arrived, accompanied by his portly mixed-breed retriever, Elvis, who pushed his way right through those spiky-spined rosebushes to lick Andrea's face in friendly consolation. After a while, Tom-or had it been Elvis?-managed to persuade Andrea to take a chance on the kindness of strangers and leave her erstwhile hiding place.

Over breakfast at the Lucky Horseshoe Cafe, since closed, the girl had confided in Tom, told him about her less-than-wholesome home life, down in Phoenix. Her mother was on drugs, she claimed, and her stepfather, who had done time for a variety of crimes, was about to get out of jail. Rather than be at his mercy, Andrea said, she'd decided to take off, try to make it on her own.

Of course, Tom checked the story out, and it held up to scrutiny, so agencies were consulted and legal steps were taken, and Andrea moved in with the elderly Crockett sisters, Mamie and Marge, who lived directly across the street from Tom's aunt Ona, she of Parade-Committee fame, as a foster child. Andrea still lived in the small apartment above the Crocketts' detached garage, proudly paying rent and looking after the old ladies and and their many cats. their many cats.

Melissa was thinking all these thoughts as she left the courthouse, head bent, rummaging through her purse for her car keys as she crossed the gravel lot.

"Did you get my email?"

The question jolted Melissa and she came to an abrupt halt, her heart scrabbling in her throat.

"Velda," Melissa said, when she had regained enough breath to speak. "You scared me."

Byron's mother, probably in her early fifties and emaciated almost to the point of anorexia, stood near the roadster, dappled in the leaf shadows of the oak tree. Velda wore an old cotton blouse without sleeves, plastic flip-flops and jeans so well-worn that the fabric couldn't have been described as blue, but only as a hint of that color.

"Sorry," Velda said, her voice scratchy from several decades of smoking unfiltered cigarettes and half again that much regret, probably, her expression insincere. Lines spiked out around her mouth, giving her lips a pursed look. "I wouldn't want to do that. Scare anybody, I mean."

"Good," Melissa said, steady enough by then to be annoyed instead of frightened.

Velda stood between Melissa and the driver's-side door of the car, her skinny arms folded. Her hair was iron-gray, with faint streaks of yellow, and fell well past her shoulders. Pink plastic barrettes, shaped like little hearts, held the locks back at the sides of her head, creating an unfortunate effect of attempted girlishness.

"Did you get my email?" Velda asked again.

"Yes," Melissa replied, holding her keys in her right hand. "And I answered it. The situation is really pretty simple, Velda. As long as Byron stays out of trouble, he won't have to worry about my office or the police."

Velda smiled wanly, shrugged her bony shoulders. She sidled out of Melissa's way, rather than stepping, as if it would be too much trouble to lift her feet. Clearly, there was more she wanted to say.

Melissa got behind the wheel of her car and turned the key in the ignition, but she didn't drive away. She waited.

"It's hard enough for him," Velda went on, at last, as if Melissa hadn't said anything at all, "knowing that poor young girl died because of what he did. Byron's got to live with that for the rest of his life. But he's not some hardened criminal, that's all I'm saying. He's not some monster everybody ought to be afraid of."

As she'd spoken, Velda had curled her fingers along the edge of the car window, so the knuckles whitened.

Melissa sighed, something softening inside her, and patted Velda's hand. "Byron is your son," she said quietly, looking straight up into the faded-denim blue of the other woman's eyes, "and you love him. I understand that. But, Velda, the best thing you can probably do to help Byron right now is to lighten up a little. Give him some time-and some s.p.a.ce-to adjust to being back on the outside."

Tears welled up in Velda's eyes; she sniffled once and stared off into some invisible distance for a long moment before looking back at Melissa. Her voice was very small when she spoke.

"Byron wasn't on the bus," she said slowly. "He was supposed to be on that bus, and he wasn't."

Melissa felt a mild charge of something that might have been alarm. "Maybe there was some kind of delay on the other end-didn't he call you?"

Velda's expression was rueful. The bitterness was back. "Call me? Not everybody can afford a cell phone, you know."

Melissa looked around. Except for Tom's cruiser, the roadster was the only vehicle in the lot. "Where's your car?"

"It's broken down," Velda said, still with that tinge of resentful irony. "That's why I was late getting over to the station to meet the bus. It was gone when I got there, and there was no sign of Byron. I asked inside the station, and Al told me he didn't see my boy get off."

"Get in," Melissa said, nodding to indicate the pa.s.senger seat, leaning to move her purse to the floorboards so Velda would have room to sit down.

Velda hesitated, then rounded the hood of the car and opened the door. Once she'd settled in and snapped on her seat belt, she met Melissa's gaze.

"What are we going to do now?" she asked.

Melissa leaned to dig her cell out of her purse and handed it to Velda. "Call Byron's parole officer," she said, by way of an answer, certain that Velda would know the number, even if she couldn't afford a mobile phone of her own. "He-or she-will know if there was some sort of hitch with his release."

Velda hesitated, then took the phone from Melissa. She studied the keypad for a few moments, while Melissa s.h.i.+fted into First and gave the roadster some gas, but soon, Byron's mom was punching in a sequence of numbers, biting her lower lip as she waited to ring through.