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“Well, just so you know,” Mrs. Pritchard leaned on the counter and pitched her voice lower, “I’m hearin’ talk that the state might come and take those boys from you.”
Emma broke into a cold sweat. It took all her willpower not to let her panic show. “How much can you give me for the ring?”
Mrs. Pritchard studied it a moment. “Well, seein’ as how you’re down and out right now, I’ll give you $250.”
The cheap band probably wasn’t worth that much. But Emma could tell by the worry in Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes that she wanted to help.
“I’ll take it. Thank you.” She willed her hand to remain steady as Mrs. Pritchard counted out the bills right into her palm.
“I’ll say a prayer for you,” the woman promised.
Emma nodded and left the shop. Every instinct warned her to run. Run with the boys. Run from the state of Mississippi, where Social Services was beginning to take note of her predicament. Where could she go with just $250 to her name and three children depending on her for food and shelter?
As she slipped into her Impala minutes later, Emma gave a thought to Amos McLeod’s check, now burning a hole in her well-worn billfold. He’d invited her to find him anytime, only Virginia was a long way away. She wasn’t sure her old car could make it that far. But Atlanta, where her first and favorite stepmother lived, was just a four-hour drive away.
Emma made up her mind. She was taking her boys and driving to Stacy’s. Her ex-stepmother’s address was in an old file folder that held all the vital records Emma had. If anyone was willing to put up her family until Emma found a job, it was Stacy. Hopefully, Carl, who never spent time with his sons, let alone paid for their upkeep, wouldn’t accuse her of abducting them.
“This is not the end,” she whispered. It was the beginning of something new.
* * *
Fitz eyed the calendar on his laptop. Several projects were going on at once, each one overlapping the other. Since his promotion to supervisory special agent, it had become his job to maintain oversight on every case his subordinates were working on, and there were lots of them.
Why, he asked himself, was he so intent on getting everything done by Thursday so his Friday remained unencumbered? Puzzled, he searched himself. What was happening on Friday that had him striving to get everything done before then? Not a clue could be gleaned from the calendar itself. He’d written nothing down. Yet he was certain something of importance was happening on that date, July 28th.
He scratched his clean-shaven chin. Was it a dental cleaning? No, he wasn’t due for a checkup until September. Doctor appointment? No, he’d had his last physical in January. What then?
He turned a thoughtful gaze out of his office window, which had him looking out of the FBI Field office at a line of pine trees. The trees brought to mind Faith and her hippotherapy ranch. It came to him, suddenly, that Faith’s therapy horses would arrive on Friday. He’d made a mental note at her dinner table last weekend. He huffed a breath of annoyance and vigorously rubbed his eyes.
“No.” He was not going to get involved in Faith’s life. “No way.”
He’d had a wife and a family, and, while he treasured those memories, he wasn’t going to fill the shoes of Faith’s dead husband, no matter how much she needed help. His life was comfortable, his work fulfilling. It was nice to do his job and not have to fret about how many hours he spent at the office. He could go to bed and wake up whenever he wanted. He could travel to headquarters without first checking with his spouse. He’d been alone for almost seven years, and he had no desire to complicate his life.
With a determined grimace, Fitz moved a meeting currently scheduled on Wednesday over to Friday morning. That way, he would be too busy investigating a local businessman with apparent ties to the mob to worry about Faith and her therapy horses.
* * *
Mateo lifted his head from the circle he and his friend had drawn into the dirt in the garden between the school and the big church. Back in a familiar environment, he had found comfort in routine, but the noise he could hear beyond the walled enclosure was like nothing he had ever heard before. It was a rumbling that went straight through the thin soles of his flip-flops and made him hold onto the marble he was about to toss.
His friend, Raúl, heard it also. “¿Qué es eso?”
A year older than Mateo, Raúl sprang to his feet and crossed to the wrought iron bars rising from the hip-high wall. Other curious children followed him.
Mateo dropped the marble and joined them. He slipped under the arms of larger children to press his face between the bars. His eyes widened as Raúl gave voice to what he was seeing.
“¡Son tanques!”
Several armored tanks, like those he’d only ever seen in a storybook, rumbled up the street and headed through town. The terrific noise they made reminded him of the giant metal bird that flew away with hismamá. Supposedly, the white men with guns had taken her to safety.
But these tanks didn’t belong to thenorteamericanos. The thick ribbed belts on their underbellies kept churning, crushing the cement plaza in some places as more and more of them, all with a blue circle on their sides, streamed past.
Over their rumble came the sound of Peter calling the children in from recess. Mateo couldn’t move. Anger burned in him as he glowered at the tanks. The army, from what he understood, was the reason hismamáhad to leave. Memories of her gentle touch, her special scent, and sweet embrace summoned a hatred toward them that was so fierce Mateo gripped the fence’s iron bars until they cut into his palms.
Hismamáhad been torn away from him and put on the metal bird, and she was never coming back.
“Mateo, come with me.”
Peter bent over him from his great height. Through his tears, Mateo glimpsed compassion in the missionary’s eyes as he gently pried Mateo’s fingers free, then lifted him into his arms. Pressing his face into Peter’s neck, Mateo hid his suffering from his classmates.
