Page 103 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
I only say, “Okay.”
“He did touch Max. On the face. On the arm. Once on the leg, but when Max jumped back, he didn’t do it again. Max woke up once to the man smoothing his hair, which seems innocent enough—I do it to them sometimes, when I go in to check on them.”
“You’re their mother.”
She exhales, as if in relief that I’m not challenging her assessment. “Yes. Family is different. If Max was scared, another adult might touch his face or arm to calm him. But this wasn’t like that. Max thought the man was going to touch him in other ways. That he was working up to it. That was his sense of things, and I don’t think a ten-year-old boy is going to imagine that.”
“Has Max ever had trouble like that before?”
She’s quiet, and her voice drops. “A little. It never came to anything, but he’s a sweet boy who’s…” Her voice cracks. “A little broken. I think predators can sense that. Like chum on the waters.”
Exactly what Gunnar said.
“What happened?” I ask gently.
“It was right after his dad died, and Max might have been vulnerable, but he was wary, too. Mistrustful. Max picked up bad signals from someone and told me. When it was investigated, the police found that the man had a history.”
“Okay. It helps to know that it’s happened before and his instincts were right. That also clarifies the situation. There weren’t many reasons someone would kidnap Max out here, and that was the most obvious. It’s good to know what we’re dealing with.”
I’m not just making her feel as if this information is useful. It is, because it removes the “mountain man looking for a son” possibility. This was kidnapping a child for sexual purposes, by someone who knew what he was doing, taking it slow and putting off gratification until he had lowered Max’s guard.
I don’t think we’re looking for a wild man of the forest at all. I think we’re looking for a predator who played a mountain man … in hopes of playing us.
* * *
For the next step, I consult with Dalton and April. April for her brilliant mind and also her lack of inhibitions when it comes to telling me I’m wrong. I might have hated that all my life, but it has proved useful here. Oh, Dalton won’t let me be wrong without saying anything. I would never want that. But he’ll take more time to consider the matter before addressing his concerns. My sister has no such compunctions. If she sees a logical flaw, she’ll tell me. And I need her for something else: her medical know-how.
Dalton and I proceed straight to the clinic, but my sister isn’t there. A note on the door reminds patients that she is closed this morning. It’s not the weekend. Oh, hell, it might be for all I know. At this point, if asked to stake my life’s savings—double or nothing—on the simple question of what day it is, I wouldn’t take the bet.
For the clinic, though, like most of Haven’s Rock, there are no official weekends. If you need to observe a day off work for religious reasons, we will accommodate that, but otherwise, most people also prefer four half days off over two whole ones. It’s not as if you can take a trip for the weekend. Better to have four days to sleep in or be done by lunch.
Last time I checked, my sister didn’t have regular clinic hours. The clinic is open when she has appointments, and if she has several, it’s open between them because closing down is inefficient.
I think I know where to find April, and I’m pleased that I’m right. We’re nearing the carpentry shop when I catch her voice, murmuring interspersed with Kenny’s. I smile and push open the door … to see Kenny with his hands on my sister’s waist, one on each side, gently holding her as she looks up at him.
Hearing the door, April looks over and flails as if they’ve been caught naked.
“I’m sorry,” I say, starting to back out. “I should have knocked.”
“It’s a carpentry shop, not a medical clinic,” Kenny says, and he smiles, but I don’t miss the wry twist to that smile, one that says he really wishes we had knocked.
“I was just…” April says. “I was…” When she trails off, Kenny murmurs, “Go on.”
She looks at him, panic lighting her eyes. Then she takes a deep breath and turns to Dalton and me, and says, “I was upset.”
“Is everything all right?” I say.
“No, everything is not all right,” she snaps, turning her full attention on me. “You are pregnant, and you are sick, and you are working yourself sicker, and I know you have to, but I am still upset. You always do this. You have since you were a child. You are reckless, and you do not take care of yourself.”
“And now I’m taking care of two and already doing a shit job of it?” I say, as calmly as I can.
“I didn’t say that,” she says. “My concern is that you did not investigate the full scope of your condition before you became involved with someone you might wish to have a child with. I know you were hardly celibate before Eric but—”
At Kenny’s throat clearing, she hesitates. She glances his way, and he shakes his head. She might not understand why—that Kenny is saying my past sex life isn’t a proper topic of discussion in front of my husband—but she trusts him and pauses. I almost regret that. Dalton doesn’t care, and I’d rather stay on that topic than what she wants to discuss.
She plows on, “You should have been examined.”
“I know—”
