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The breath she let out was a prayer of thankfulness, until Russell eased back on the railing, a frown on his face. “Only one fly in the ointment. They didn’t get the captain.”
All the fears that had just been banished came back with double the force. “They didn’t?”
“Raid had to be done while the ship was still in port, so they moved in, but he wasn’t aboard. Must’ve gotten close enough to see the Coasties swarming the place and split.”
Of course he did. Always looking out for his own skin.
After all she’d sacrificed, after all she’d prayed, Patrick was still a free man.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bianchini,” Russell soothed, clearly noticing her alarm. “They impounded the ship and everything on it, so he won’t be able to operate. Besides, once criminals like this get into the black market, they don’t get out. He’ll be caught eventually.”
Eventually was not soon enough. Not for the children.
She couldn’t bring herself to tell Russell that the captain was her husband, that she might have brought danger into their home. Surely it would be fine, and all her worries were merely that.
Still, a passing fear made her hurry into the kitchen, where Avis was helping Rosa measure salt into a teaspoon. “It’s late. I’d better make sure Gio is all right by himself.”
“Are you sure?” Avis asked, dusting her hands on her apron. “He should be back in a half hour, and it won’t be dark yet.”
“He loses track of time easily.” Also true, but this was no instinct of a hovering mother. Patrick was out there. And if he’d followed them to the movie theater, he’d likely seen them coming out of the library. If he was looking for them and he’d tried the trailer camp, the foundry, and the local Catholic church, he might go to the library next.
It was the blackout curtains, Martina decided, that made the library ominous after closing. Without them, the shelves would tower in the silence, but they wouldn’t have a funereal look, one that felt oppressive from the moment she entered the front doors.
She stepped hesitantly through the entryway, and the voices she heard turned her stomach.
In the main hall of the library, Gio stood in the halo of dim light cast by the checkout desk’s lamp with Patrick beside him, clapping him on the shoulder and chuckling. The perfect scene of father and son, one that might be sketched for a magazine cover.
The floorboards creaked under her steps, and both looked up. “Martina,” Patrick said evenly, a gleam of victory in his eyes. He was enjoying this, wasn’t he?
She ignored him, focusing on her son, hurrying to stand between them. “Give me your key, Gio. I’ll lock up.”
That stubborn set came back to his face, the one she saw more and more often these days. “I want to stay.”
What he wanted didn’t matter because it was dangerous. But she couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain now. “Gio, go home. Your father and I need to talk—alone.”
This time, the challenge in his raised chin was different, his words hitting her like a knockout blow. “Only if you promise to tell me why you lied.”
She rallied, taking in a deep breath, not denying his accusation, however unfair. “I promise.” At least he would give her that chance, an opportunity to counter whatever lies Patrick might have already passed on.
The moment he was gone—Please, let him get home safely—she turned on Patrick. “What did you tell him?”
He crossed his arms. “Not much. Said I’d wanted to visit for a while. Asked him how school was going, what he thought of Joe Louis and so many other champs joining the army. He told me you don’t like him to listen to boxing anymore.”
That wasn’t true, not fully, but she didn’t try to defend herself. If it was a fight Patrick wanted, he would have to begin it himself.
“Better be careful, or he’ll wind up a sissy.” He gestured to the shelves surrounding them. “Son of mine shouldn’t be working here. Ought to be getting his hands dirty.”
She was almost baited into small talk, almost said that all summer Gio had worked long hours weeding and tilling the soil. Told him that there was nothing wrong with a son who loved hard labor under open skies and the satisfaction of shelving books under high ceilings. But that was a level of fatherhood Patrick didn’t need to be guided to, not after all he’d done.
She tried to think of what to say. Nothing about the pawn shop, the black marketeering, the arrests. Maybe he would assume it was a random search.
But his next words crushed that hope. “I heard those Coasties. Watched from a ways away, knowing something wasn’t right. They were asking around for Patrick Quinn.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Only I don’t go by that name here. Couldn’t get a fishing license under it because of my dishonorable discharge. You’re looking at Rick Sullivan.”
“Oh?” She fought the ironclad grip of panic that pushed the word out of her throat in a squeak. She had to stay calm, to think.
“Which means the only person in this rotten town who knows my real name is you.” He took a menacing step toward her, disgust in his voice, like he’d expected no better of her. “What did you tell them?”
Nothing but the truth would do. He already knew the worst. “That you and your crew planned to betray your country for your own gain.”
