Chapter Nineteen
“Yikes!”Adam bolted out of bed the next morning. The bells in
the bell tower pealed forth the news that Christmas Day, 1945 had arrived. He
slapped his hands over his ears and bent in acoustic torture. The bells hadn’t
rung since Adam had taken over the small room directly below the open tower
loft. He had no idea that the sound, which was majestic out on the streets,
would reverberate in the tower like a blacksmith’s anvil on his ear drums. It
had been so many years since the bells had chimed, he would not have remembered
the experience in the same intensity as that particular Christmas morning.
The little
hummingbird scratched and chirped in pain. The little one would have flown out
of the tower if it had been free.
“Sorry,
sorry,” Adam laughed while he held his ears with one hand and opened the cage
with the other. “Do what you have to do.”
The little
hummer hopped up onto Adam’s extended index finger and seemed to pace up and
down between the knuckles. The tiny guy was obviously bothered by the chimes.
Adam smiled
at the little bird then opened the tower window. In recent days, he had let the
bird out of the cage but not out of the belfry. The window had remained closed
for the winter. Adam didn’t know what else to do. The bells were too much for
him as a human. Adam knew that birds usually fly out of a tower when the bells
begin to chime.
“Joy to the
World,” the melody rang out and the bells in the belfry hit every note with
perfect ting on the high ones and deep tonal vibrations in the lower register.
Adam hated to see the bird take to the air beyond the tower but he also knew he
had no other choice.
No one would
be around. It was Christmas. People would be at home with their families. They
would drink hot cocoa, open presents at the base of a brightly lit tree, and
sit beside the warm, homey glow of yule logs. At least, that was how Adam
remembered Christmas morning to be. That was also how he saw the Breman home,
when he allowed himself to think about family Christmas.
He took his
time dressing even though the wind blew through the cracks around the belfry
windows. Then he stepped slowly down the ladder. His only luxury for Christmas
Day would be that he wouldn’t have to worry about being caught in the Church
building.
Outside, the
streets and sidewalks were deserted. There was no one around. He searched, but
he could not see his hummingbird in the adjacent trees. His hummingbird—the
little guy had been his hummingbird, but now he was gone.
The weather
was bitter cold. Adam worried about the hummer and his heart ached. Hummingbirds
aren’t winter birds. The rest of the flock is long gone.
The little
birds would have flown south long before the first snowflakes had shaken like a
split feather pillow from the sky. Adam had to get himself together. He didn’t
want to think about the bird and he definitely was not going to think about how
lonely the tower would feel when he got back.
Adam lowered
his head and leaned into the cold wind once again as he had so many times in
the past. He started walking toward the sanitarium, ten miles away. He arrived
an hour later, owing partly to the wind
at his back that pushed him along, and partly to the same wind at his back that
froze him to the bone. A fast pace was the only way to build up body heat.
Some time
later, Adam staggered into the hospital on a bumpy blast of north wind. “Let me
get you some blankets and hot tea,” a nurse offered.
“Thank you.”
He shivered through chattering teeth while ice dripped from his eyebrows.
The nurse
handed him a blanket from a cart in the hallway. He wrapped himself in the wool
like an Indian chief. As he warmed, he redirected his thoughts to his mother.
“Is Bridget
Schumacher doing well today?” Adam asked. He had to say something, but hoped he
knew the answer. Moms had promised to be up and about by Christmas Day.
“Bridget?”
She pointed to the large gathering room with open stairway and soft lights.
“You’re lucky. You can visit her and warm yourself by the fire at the same
time.” She pointed again. “Go on in.”
Adam pulled
the blanket even tighter and walked into the open space. “Hi Moms,” Adam smiled
as he entered the room full of Holiday music and Christmas peace.
“Adam,” she
stood up and reached out her arms. “You got a ride.”
“I walked
Moms.”
“Walked?
Adam, you could have caught your death of cold.” Bridget put her arms around
her son and rubbed some warmth into his back.
“I’m fine
Moms.” He chuckled with a twinkle, “But the back rub sure feels good.” Adam
held out the present he had brought. “I kept the comics section of the Sunday
newspaper someone had left on a chair at church the other evening and used it
for the wrapping paper. There aren’t any Christmas scenes, but the paper is
colorful. I wrapped the box with my favorite strip, Dick Tracy square in the
middle, found a piece of string and tied the whole package together. I don’t
think the wrappings look too bad.”
“Son, it is
wonderful!” Bridget took the present and pressed the gift to her chest.
“The comics
aren’t the gift, Moms. What’s inside is the present.” Adam enjoyed the fun of
making his mother smile.
Bridget
Schumacher carefully opened the wrappings and box and lifted out the linen
square with the lace border Adam had selected at the five and dime. “Adam, the
handkerchief is lovely. Where did you get the money?”
Adam’s chest
puffed out a little. “I earned it, Moms. I shoveled some ice and snow for a
lady. . . . And―”
“You have a
job? That is wonderful, Adam.”
“The
sidewalk only took a few minutes to shovel off. But, Moms, I do have another
job―”
“You didn’t
quit school, did you Son? If you did, when school starts again after Christmas
break, you march yourself right back in there and―”
“No, no
Moms. I’m still in school. I work on Saturdays and for a few hours after
school. This will please you, Moms. Mr.
Gunderman said I could have the job as long as I can keep my grades up. Also, I
have Fridays off because—” He paused and studied her face. He didn’t want her
to think he was shirking work for play. “Because I am on the basketball team at
school too.”
“Basketball?
You’re on the team? Oh how I loved to play basketball in high school.”
“You? Moms,
you played basketball?”
“You think
all I’ve ever done is garden and can and cook and do the laundry and clean?”
Luckily for Adam, she was chuckling through her litany of chores.
“No Moms.
You just never talked about playing sports before.”
“Well then,
for that I am sorry. I loved every position of basketball. I was a little short
for Center. Now . . . I’m hungry. I’ve made a reservation for you to join me
for dinner. They are serving turkey and
dressing.” She sized up his arms and face. “Are you eating all right?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Mrs.
Crammer feeding you well? You look so thin.”
“I’m not
staying with the Crammers, Moms.” Then, before she could ask any questions, he
changed the subject. “Speaking of the Crammers, I saw Sidney Crammer
yesterday.”
“Dinner is
being served,” a nurse interrupted. “Bridget, you can take your visitor into
the large dining room with you.”
“This is my
son, Adam.”
“Good to
meet you, Adam,” the nurse said.
The dining
room was full of flowers and the wonderful aroma of hot food. They could have
been serving squirrel for all Adam cared. The food was warm and the plates were
served on a white table cloth and that Christmas dinner was his third hot meal
in a row.
“Like I said
Moms, I saw Sidney Crammer. He said something about Pops telling him he would
sell the creek and bottom land. That doesn’t sound like Pops. Did he ever tell
you about selling any land, let alone the land down by the creek?”
“Sell the
creek?” Bridget unfolded her napkin and placed the cloth slowly in her lap.
“Your father never spoke to me about selling off any land, and I wouldn’t think
the land he would consider would be the creek, if he considered it at all.”
“Grandpa
said, ‘A good farm has good soil. A great farm has great soil and water.’” Adam
lifted off a biscuit as the plate was passed and he inhaled the aroma of the
golden flaky quick bread. “The biscuit smells so good they should can it and spray
the school right before it starts. That would get everybody inside fast.”
“Adam,”
Bridget put her knife and fork down, “you come up with some unusual ideas.”
“One thing
that is not unusual, is indoor plumbing. Moms, how are you going to get to come
home any time soon if we don’t have an indoor bathroom?”
“I’ve
wondered about that myself Adam and I just do not know what we will do.”
“The money
Mr. Crammer would pay for the land would put in a new bathroom Moms.” Adam
couldn’t believe he was bringing up the sale again. He didn’t want to sell off
one foot of the land that had been in Pops’ family since President John Quincy
Adams first deeded the parcel over to
the Schumacher ancestors.
“You know,
the fireplace in the parlor is the same one your dad’s great-grandmother cooked
over when they first moved into the valley. The cabin was just two rooms with a
loft above. As the farm prospered and the family grew, the cabin was enlarged,
until the house was as we know it today.” Bridget’s eyes shone. Adam guessed
that old scenes danced in her head just as they did in his.
“Can you
imagine baking a pie or cooking Thanksgiving dinner like that? That would be
hard.” Adam marveled.
“Probably,
but I doubt they thought it was. That was the way of farm life back then.” She
smiled. “That life sounds wonderful to me. My people moved into the hills of
New York in much the same way. They cooked over open, outdoor fires and
gathered berries. Most of the clan moved on. They never stayed in one place.”
“You never
told me much about them, Moms. We only visited Granny those two summers. Were
they farmers too? I don’t remember farm equipment.”
“Not exactly
. . . they were tinkers. They dealt in tin . . . but they traveled all the
time.”
“Why Moms?
And, why don’t you ever talk about them?”
“The clan
has traveled for centuries. That was, and is, who they are.”
“They sound
like gypsies,” Adam joked.
“Your father
forbid me to use that word, Adam. We haven’t talked about them since your dad
put a stop to our visits. But, they are travelers, Irish travelers.” Bridget
cut strips of her turkey and took a bite. “Um, very good.”
“I would
think that life could have been fun, hunting all the time, working with tin . .
. to make what?”
“Oh, I don’t
know. I guess, my great-grandfather loved moving about as a boy. Traveling was
who they were and what they did. Grandpa would tell stories about how his
father used to play with the Indian children from a nearby village.” Bridget
sipped her coffee as she retold the family tale that had been heard before but
she never grew tired of the telling.
“They came
into that valley a long time ago didn’t they?”
“Our
settlers were among the first. They made friends with the Indians and
Morningstar, an Indian woman, taught my Great-grandmother how to weave.”
“Did
Morningstar teach any of them how to make pots? Pottery, you know, pots.”
“Why yes, of
course, Adam. And what is interesting, your Grandpa Schumacher, out at the
farm, also taught you how to throw pots on the wheel out in the barn. He glazed
and fired them in the kiln. Don’t you remember?”
“I didn’t
Moms, but someone reminded me.” He put his fork in the potatoes and ate a bite
while he thought. Could his memory have been right?
“I don’t see
how you could forget it Adam. The curator at the art gallery said your talent
was amazing. He sold a lot of your pots there at the gallery. He even shipped
some to Boston and New York where they were sold in fine stores.”
“How is that
possible Moms? I didn’t fall and hit my head. Why didn’t I remember?”
“I’ve
noticed, Adam, that memories are hard for you to come by. I asked my doctor
about you. He said that you must be taking all of this very hard, so you hide
inside yourself and forget the past that is painful. You can’t just forget the
day Pops left. You forget the whole thing, the whole year and maybe a few of
those years before.” Bridget’s voice cracked as she tried to talk to her son.
“I haven’t been able to be much of a mother for you,” she whispered.
“Moms,” Adam
felt a big lump in his throat and couldn’t swallow, “you have been sick. I know
that.”
“Is
everything all right?” One of the nursing attendants asked as she passed.
“Yes,
thanks,” Adam smiled. “We are just happy.” And, that was not a lie. Adam was
beginning to remember.
“Grandpa would
take me with him out to the barn. While he cleaned out stalls, I would try to
help, but he would say, ‘No, you are an artist. You make some more pots.’ And,
I did. One time Pops came out to the barn and I thought I’d get in trouble for
not helping with the cleanup. But no. Pops said he was amazed by my art and
very proud of me.”
“Can you
make pots fast enough to bring in some money?” Moms was so excited her voice
cracked as she whispered the family business in the public dining hall. “I
don’t want to sell any of the farm.”
“Me neither.
Selling any of our land would feel like we were betraying the family. I don’t
want to sell even a foot of the farm.” Adam whispered.
“I know, but
we need the money so fast. Oh, I wish your father would come home. I can not
make a decision like this on my own.”
“Moms, don’t
you think he would have been home by now, if he was alive or if he hadn’t been
a deserter.”
“Deserter?”
Bridget’s voice sounded both shocked and angry. She lowered her tone and her
chin, as if she were preparing herself for a fight. “Don’t you ever say that
again. Never call your father a deserter. How can you even think such a thing?”
“I don’t
know Moms. But . . .” Adam’s head and heart were banging into each other. He
had been utterly alone for four months. In the dead of winter, he was living in
a church bell tower because he had no family to take him in. He had lied to his
mother throughout the entire autumn. If Pops wasn’t dead, why didn’t he come
home and make everything right? If he was alive and would not come home . . .
Adam was beginning to hate him.
“Wait a
minute,” Bridget gasped. “What about the bank account? I know that money is
yours and Pops was saving it for your college. But, maybe we could use a little
of it now. Adam―”
“The bank
account?” He dropped his fork on the plate and the metal made an awful clatter.
“What’s
wrong?” Moms saw how startled he was.
“Then, there
is a bank account? That wasn’t a dream or just a wish?”
“A dream? Of
course not, Honey. And, your dad had forbidden you to wish for things. Those
are the clan ways.”
“What do you
mean? A wish is just a wish.”
“Not to the
clan. Wishes come true and they always require a price to be paid. The old ways
are not our ways, Adam. If the shadows grant the wish, the price is irrevocably
everything you hold dear. If the wee ones are responsible, the prize is empty
and does not satisfy. It only makes us wish for more. The old clan ways are not
for us.”
“But Moms .
. . wait. I have been remembering a funny old man named Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”
“Adam, don’t
mention his name out loud,” Moms cautioned through clenched teeth.
“Moms,”
Adam was stunned. What was she afraid of. “Why?”
“The one you
mention . . . does have gold . . . but he will trick you, deceive you. Even if
you get the money, the cash won’t be for free. The price you will pay will be
more than anyone could ever imagine. There will be an unquenchable aching for
more, always more, that will never be satisfied.”
“Moms,
but . . . he looks like a . . . leprechaun.”
“I know
Adam.” Bridget nervously pushed the food around on her plate. “We’ll talk of
him no more.”
“Granny
said, the only ones I was not to look at were the shadow figures. I was not to
look at them as all.”
“I know.
When you told her the shadows talked to you, she was terrified—and so was I.
Your father insisted that we come home if Granny filled your head with tales of
the travelers. We packed and left on the next bus.” Bridget put her hand to her
mouth. “Did the shadow people actually
talk to you?”
“Yes, I
guess. I could hear their words in my head. Granny only said I wasn’t to look
at them. Just let them pass.”
“Have
they—have you seen or heard them here?”
“Yes, sure.
You have seen them too, Moms. I’ve seen your eyes follow them as they move
around.”
“That is
enough, Adam. Pops always protected you from the gypsy ways.” She sipped her
coffee and went on. “No more of that. Let’s talk about something else.” She
sipped her coffee. “Your daddy opened an
account for you at a bank over near the gallery in the Capital.” Bridget threw
her hands in the air in silent affirmation of a memory once lost but now found.
“What bank?”
Adam jumped on the excitement. He would drop the questions about the O’Hara
side of the family—for now.
“Don’t you
know?” Moms dropped her hands in her lap.
“Did I go
with Pops?”
“Yes, I’m
pretty sure you did. You said to me, ‘Pops and I went to the bank on the way
home.’ I remember.” She watched Adam’s expression. “Now, just relax.” She
reached out and patted his hand. “Relax, relax. Focus on one of the pots you
created if you can.”
“Okay,” Adam
closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind of the possibilities that might be
there. He didn’t see a pot but he could feel a soft matte glaze on his fingers
tips. Then, he saw Pops and a sunny day . . . and paintings.
“Can you see
you and Pops talking to the man at the art gallery?”
“Yes.” Adam
was surprised. He had not thought about that scene for several years, not since
Pops left. “The man said something about my being gifted. I didn’t know what he
meant but he smiled a lot and touched my pottery very gently.”
“He was
saying that God has given you a gift, a talent for doing something special.”
Adam opened
his eyes and grinned. “I like that.” He closed his eyes again and relaxed. “We
celebrated by getting a cola at the drug store near by, across from the
National Bank.” His eyes flew open. “The National Bank, that’s the one, Moms.
It was the National Bank in the Capital. I know it was.”
“Great!” She
cheered him along. “We’ll have to have the account number.”
“Maybe the
number is in my room at the farm.” He finished his bread and folded his napkin.
“I wonder how much is in the account.”
“You don’t
remember?”
“I was about
twelve. I would have been excited if the guy had flipped me a quarter.” He
chuckled.
“I am sure
he paid you much more than that or your father would not have opened an account
for you. And, I’ll bet, you might have had your name on the account but Pops
would have had to sign too since you are a minor.”
Pops—again.
We need Pops and he’s no where around. “If I still have money in that
bank account, I should be able to get it out somehow. With Pops gone and the
government not knowing where he is, you should be able to sign for me as my
only parent.”
Nothing more
was said about the farm or the land or the creek. There was nothing that could
be said. Adam was not old enough to sell any land even if he wanted to and Moms
was obviously not strong enough to make such a major decision by herself. If
they were going to get a bathroom at the farm, the savings account would have
to pay for it.
They talked
no more of the shadows, Pops, or Mr. O’Shaughnessy. The day was good, full of
mystery that fascinated Adam for the first time in months.
Adam walked
back to town a few hours later with not a single present to distinguish this
day from any other. He wasn’t a baby. He understood his mother had no way to
shop even if she had the money to do so. If there was a God in heaven, he had
not made his presence known to Adam Shoemaker.
But, there
was something else. In the silence of the night air, he began to talk through
his options. “That money in that bank is mine. I can spend every dollar—if I
can get the information about the bank. There has to be a way. Perhaps that
fellow, O’Shaughnessy, can help. I wouldn’t be asking for his money. I just
need help getting at mine. So far, Shaddi has helped with powers but not hard
cash. Shaddi, what do I do?” The evening wind was silent as he walked back to
town.
Along with
the fear and doubt, hope began to stir within Adam. There was money, his own
money, somewhere. He felt the pride of work and accomplishment. How long would
the good feelings last? They rose and fell like the road that stretched out
before him. Somehow, everything was different. Was it really true? Was an
artist’s heart buried beneath all the rubble of his life? Could it really be? Had life taken a turn
toward hope and future and goals. Adam continued his walk into town while the
sun warmed his face in the icy blue winter sky.
Chapter Twenty
Back in town, a young boy called from a front yard lit with
multicolored Christmas lights. “Hi Adam.” Then the boy mimicked a jump shot and
called out, “Are you going to play in the next game too?”
“Sure am,”
Adam answered but didn’t slow down. He was too cold to stop moving but he was
glad to see the boy in the yard. It was late in the afternoon on Christmas Day
and it seemed like life in Middletown had fallen asleep after a big meal and
had just stretched and awakened.
He saw the
boy set up a target for what appeared to be new BB gun. Two other children
bounded out to the concrete driveway and returned volley for volley with new
tennis rackets. It had been snowing all Christmas Day but the never-ending flow
of frozen white flakes didn’t seem to keep neighborhood kids from their fun.
Adam thrust his hands into his empty pockets to brace himself from the cold,
then turned the corner onto Cranberry Street.
“Adam,”
Fritzy giggled, “where are you going?”
“Fritzy,
what are you doing over here? Thought you’d be at home in your nice warm house
on a cold day like this. You live blocks away from here.”
“Today is
Christmas, Adam. And, I live just three blocks from here. You know that. I was
out for a walk. What’s wrong?”
“Oh
. . . nothing, sorry. It’s just that—never mind.” Adam threw his hands up over
his head, frustrated and angry. He started to walk past the
church. He had to lead Fritzy away from the corner. She could not discover his
hiding place, his only sanctuary. His heart raced. Was this the moment all his
secrets would come tumbled down around him?
“Are you
Adam Shoemaker?” A Middletown policeman pulled his squad car to the corner and
leaned out of the window.
“Yes.”
“What’s
wrong officer?” Fritzy asked.
“We’d like to talk to young Mr. Shoemaker.
Sorry Miss.” The officer got out of the car and approached the two on the
sidewalk.
“Why?”
Fritzy quizzed.
“Mr.
Shoemaker just started working at the church on Cranberry Street, right?”
“So?” Fritzy
tone was puzzled.
“The Christ
Child carving, Ma’am. The statue came up missing just after Mr. Shoemaker
started working there. He’s the only outsider.”
“Outsider?”
The bottom fell out of Adam’s heart and lay exposed and bruised on the cold,
indifferent street. How could he be an outsider in God’s house? If that were
true, he didn’t belong anywhere.
“I’d like
for you to come to the station and answer a few questions.” The officer stepped
a little closer and took Adam by the sleeve.
Adam was
dazed as he got into the vehicle, confused and numb. He said nothing. At first,
he couldn’t even look at Fritzy but before they pulled away he looked up and
caught her gaze.
Was she
disappointed in him? Was she angry?
“Officer,
you have no right—” Fritzy barked as she put her hand on he hip. “He doesn’t
have to answer your questions.”
“Yes,
Ma’am—he does,” the officer returned in equally snappy manner.
Fritzy
stomped her foot and clung to Adam’s sleeve as he was placed in the squad care.
“Call me when you get back,” Fritzy frantically called after them as the doors
were closed.
Adam was
stunned, shocked Nothing made any sense. He sat slumped forward in the back of
a police squad car that had no handles on the inside of the doors. What was
going on? What strange world did he live in? His life felt like an amusement
park ride that went up, then dropped down in free fall, but left his stomach at
the summit. All he could do was wait for his body to reconnect to get answers.
He had been waiting for answers for years, it seemed.
■ ■ ■
“Sit down,
Son.” The officer pointed to a chair next to an old wooden table in one of the
interview rooms at the local precinct.
The police
station was nothing like Adam would have imagined. That is, if he had ever
thought about it, which he hadn’t. The truth was, in the wildest fantasies of
his make-believe world, he never once thought that he would end up in a police
station interrogation room.
The room was
dingy and drab. Gray-green paint peeled from the walls. There weren’t bars on
the windows but there might as well have been. They looked like they had been
painted closed, over and over, for many years. A whiff of fresh air had not
blown through that room in a very long time.
Adam did
what he was told. He couldn’t make sense out of anything anymore. Now, he
believed that the very people who had showed him love and acceptance, the
people of the
Cranberry Street church, had turned his name into the police
as a likely suspect.
“That statue
was hand carved, Boy, by a very famous artist. Now, I’m no art expert, but it
seems to me, if a fellow were to steal something of any value, he would want to
sell it.”
Adam said
nothing. Not that he was trying to be secretive. He didn’t know the answers to
anything anymore. He didn’t even know the questions. He did, however, know who
took the carving and he couldn’t say a word. He wasn’t protecting those stupid
boys. He was making sure he didn’t end up living with people he didn’t even
know, perhaps in another town. If he were very far away, he wouldn’t be able to
walk out to visit Moms.
“You tell me
where you hid the carving and I’ll call your dad and have him come pick you up.
No more questions. No blame.”
Dad? Lots
of luck with that. Pops is nowhere. Let me know when he gets to town. Adam thought many things but said nothing. Pops’
name only dredged up more hurtful feelings: anger, fear, homesickness.
“Where do
you live, Son? Does your family have a phone?” Detective Frank Overton didn’t
even look at Adam. He studied the paper he was going to write on. That kept him
distant, aloof, in charge, in control.
Son? I’m
nobody’s son. Bitter tears started to stream down his face.
“Look Kid,
this doesn’t have to be a problem. The church doesn’t want to press charges.
They just want the carving back.” The detective leaned his head on one hand and
stifled a yawn.
Adam closed
his eyes. He felt utterly beaten. No one believed him. No one trusted him. His
name was ruined. He couldn’t tell anyone where he lived. He felt like he had
been running a race for four months. He had finally reached the finish line and
he had come in last. There was no one to cheer him on or welcome a triumphant
winner. He had lost.
“Today is
Christmas, Adam. I would like to get back home to my family. If you will not tell
me where you live or how to contact your folks, I’ll have to call the County
and have them come and get you. However,” he paused and Adam found the silence
deafening, “nobody will be there today. So, you will have to sit in the jail
over night. I’m not charging you with anything, not yet. We haven’t found the
statue in your possession. But, I cannot let a boy, with no home and no way to
contact his parents, out on the streets alone.”
Adam just
stared at the table, silently. There were several coffee rings on the surface
and on the left, a sticky substance covered a spot about the size of a deck of
cards. He studied every
dot and blotch on the gray table top as he tried to stay
control the fear, the disappointment and the dreaded feeling of abandonment.
If I don’t
look at Detective Overton, if I can focus on something else, anything else, he will not be in
my world. If he’s not in my world, he can’t hurt me.
The silly image of a baby playing
peek-a-boo came into Adam’s mind. The baby always seemed surprised when his mother’s face
appeared after he pulls away the kerchief. If he doesn’t see her, she isn’t there.
Am I just
a big baby? Adam belittled himself. You will not intimidate me, he
spoke to Overton inside his own head. The muscles in his back tightened
as he pulled himself up to his full, seated posture and looked at the detective
squarely. He said nothing. A night in jail will probably be the warmest I’ve
spent in weeks.
Detective Overton stared at
Adam for a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and stood up. “Well then, come along
with me, Son.”
The
detective didn’t handcuff him or try to restrain him in any way. “I’m sorry
you’ve chosen this path, Adam. No one wants you to spend the night in jail,
but―” He motioned for the boy to walk ahead of him as he led him through the
outer office and into the holding area. He motioned for Adam to remove his
belt.
Adam turned
his empty pockets inside out and walked into the cell. The door slammed closed.
Night had gathered within him regardless of the time of day. Darkness crowded
out all hope inside the boy. He knew the shadows would come unless he fought
the despair. But, he had a bank account that could not be opened, a talent that
had been forgotten, a cherished farm that could to be traded for the price of a
bathroom, and friends who turned him in like a bitter foe. He lay down on the
bunk and waited for life to completely go out. He resisted the temptation to
call out the name O’Shaughnessy.
Instead,
Adam pleaded, “Shaddi, why? What can I do? Spring the lock and set me free.”
___________________________
Escape from the Belfry is available in paperback and eBook on amazon.com, BN.com and cokesbury.com. The sequel, Escape from the Shadows will be released on April 15 and available on these Internet sites.
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