In Every Heartbeat Part 16

Pete clumsily rose and stepped in front of Bennett, but he didn't advance on the boys. "Lorenzo, I don't want to hurt you. I might poke you with the needle if you don't take off your shirt."

"He ain't takin' it off." Dennis's eyes snapped, daring Pete to argue.

Bennett had never seen such a stubborn kid. Reminded him of himself at that age.

The boy stuck out his jaw. "It's the only shirt he's got. You don't give it back, what's he s'posed to do? Run around without?"

"He's running around without shoes," Bennett muttered, "so what difference does it make?" The boy's feet were chapped, the toenails rimmed with dirt. He'd been going shoeless for quite a while.

"Can go to school without shoes. Can't go without a shirt." Dennis plunked his fists on his hips. "So you either fix it with him in it or we're goin' home."

Another wail left Lorenzo's lips. "I can't go home, Dennis! Pa'll skin me for tearin' my shirt!"

Pete limped forward a couple of steps, keeping a distance between himself and the boys. Bennett wished he'd just grab the kid and take the shirt, but instead Pete spoke in a soft voice, the way he might talk to a spooked horse. "Lorenzo, all I want to do is fix your shirt for you. I promise I won't keep it. What would I do with it?" He held his arms outward. "It wouldn't fit me."

A grin twitched Lorenzo's lips. "You're too big for it."

Pete laughed as if the kid had said something clever. "That's right." He returned to the table. "So come on over here. You can watch me. Then the next time your shirt gets a tear, you'll know how to fix it yourself."

"But I don't got a needle and thread." The boy slowly scuffed his way to Pete and began unb.u.t.toning the ragged shirt.

"Once I'm done, I'll give you the needle and thread."

The little boy's mouth dropped. "For real? For me to keep?"

"To keep." Pete took the shirt and turned it inside-out.

"My own needle . . ."

Bennett couldn't hold back a snort. Pete wasn't offering the kid anything of value, like an erector set or a pair of roller skates. Why would he get all excited over a needle and thread?

Lorenzo rested his palms on the table and leaned close, watching Pete push the needle in and out, in and out. The boy's ribs showed, and some strange pale marks on his back-fading welts?-captured Bennett's attention. A chill went down his spine when the little boy said, "n.o.body never gave me nothin' before . . . not for keeps."

Bennett glanced at Dennis, who stared unsmilingly in Pete's direction, seeming to guard his little brother with his eyes. Sinking onto the mattress, Bennett considered for the first time that there could be worse things than growing up without knowing who his parents were.

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An hour after entering the jail cell, Libby thanked Mr. Holloway for his time and scampered up the dimly lit staircase leading from the bas.e.m.e.nt. The jail area of the rock building had been cool and damp, carrying the musty odors of mold and something that reminded her of an outhouse on a hot summer day. She burst onto the street, sucking in great drafts of fresh, crisp air to clear her nostrils of the unpleasant odors.

Her chest ached. She could escape the dreariness of that underground cell, but Oscar couldn't. "Oh, that poor boy . . ." The back of her nose stung as an image of Oscar Leidig's hopeless face filled her memory. She wasn't sure which haunted her more-Oscar's despair or Mr. Holloway's apathy toward the young man. While she'd carefully recorded Oscar's version of the events leading up to the death of the drugstore clerk, the guard had sat with his hands linked on his belly, his expression stoic or-worse-bored. The man's only concern was that she spell his name correctly.

"No one cares." She whispered the words to the pa.s.sing pedestrians, their mindless busyness seeming to prove her thoughts correct. Well, now that she was armed with the facts, somebody somebody was going to care! She would not let Petey's brother die without a fight. was going to care! She would not let Petey's brother die without a fight.

She hailed a pa.s.sing cab and gave the driver Alice-Marie's address. She needed to find Petey and share her findings-but Petey didn't have the power to set his brother free. Alice-Marie's father, however, might. He was a respected businessman and a pillar of his church; his voice would count when raised against injustice. Libby hugged her notebook to her chest and willed the afternoon to hurry by. She'd speak to Mr. Daley when he returned home for lunch. There was no time to lose-Oscar's hanging was scheduled to take place on December 18, only a month away.

The cab pulled up in front of Alice-Marie's stately home. Libby handed the cab driver a quarter and hopped out. She took the steps two at a time. Just as she reached for the bra.s.s door handle, she heard Alice-Marie's voice.

"Elisabet Conley, there you are running again. Will you ever learn to behave like a lady?"

Libby spun toward the sound and located Alice-Marie sitting on a wicker chair in the porch's attached gazebo. She hurried over and dropped into a matching chair. A half-empty teacup painted with delicate blue forget-me-nots sat on a wooden tray on a wicker table between the chairs. The vast difference between the horror of Oscar's jail cell and Alice-Marie's pristine world almost made Libby dizzy.

"Did you get the information you needed to finish your article?"

Libby felt a twinge of guilt. She'd led Alice-Marie and her parents to believe she'd left their home to gather information for a school a.s.signment. Mrs. Daley had erroneously a.s.sumed Libby's silence when questioned about her whereabouts resulted from embarra.s.sment of her social faux pas. After all, what girl of breeding would leave a social event prior to bidding a polite farewell to the special guest?

Maelle would be disappointed to know Libby had engaged in falsehoods, but allowing the Daleys to hold to their a.s.sumptions had made it easy to continue the charade when leaving the house that morning. In answer to Alice-Marie's question, she said, "I have the information, but there's still much work to do."

"So you'll be writing this afternoon?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

Libby took a deep breath. "Whether or not I can secure your father's a.s.sistance."

Alice-Marie took a sip of tea, her eyebrows high. "How can Daddy help?"

Instead of answering that question, Libby posed one of her own. "Will he be home soon?"

"Around twelve-thirty, Mother said. We'll have luncheon at one."

Libby groaned. She might burst if she had to wait that long!

Alice-Marie nibbled the edge of a round, crisp cookie. She pushed the little plate holding three more cookies closer to Libby. "Have one-they're wonderful. Lemon b.u.t.ter cookies, the last of the season, since Cook won't be able to get lemons again until next spring."

Libby shook her head. She couldn't eat. Not until she'd unburdened herself. "Alice-Marie, do you read the newspaper?"

She wrinkled her nose. "What on earth for?" She took another dainty bite and brushed crumbs from her skirt.

"To find out what's going on in the world." Libby leaned forward. "Did you know, right here in Clayton, a sixteen-year-old-a mere boy!-is jailed and awaiting execution for a murder he didn't commit?"

Alice-Marie's mouth dropped open. "Truly? But that's despicable!"

Libby nodded wholeheartedly. "It is. The story I was working on when I left your house last weekend involves him." She couldn't bring herself to mention the boy was Petey's brother. "I'm hoping your father might be able to help me find a way to prove this boy's innocence."

"Libby, dear, Daddy isn't a lawyer."

Her patronizing tone irritated Libby, but she swallowed a sharp retort. She needed Alice-Marie's cooperation right now. "But he is a businessman, so he's certainly acquainted with lawyers."

"Of course he is." Alice-Marie broke off a crumbly bit of cookie then carried the morsel to her mouth. "Daddy owns four different businesses in town. He has two lawyers on his payroll who make certain everything is handled appropriately." She giggled. "To be honest, I know very little about what he does. Daddy never discusses business at home. He says it's gauche. And that's fine. I don't need to know about his business dealings . . . as long as I continue to receive my allowance." She popped the last of the cookie into her mouth.

Alice-Marie's superficiality was becoming more glaring by the moment. What made some people so unaware, so uncaring? She hoped Alice-Marie's father possessed more sensitivity.

At that moment, a rattling chug-chug-chug chug-chug-chug carried to her ears. She sat up in eagerness, looking toward the street. Alice-Marie sent a smile in Libby's direction. "Here's Daddy now. I guess he decided to come home early." carried to her ears. She sat up in eagerness, looking toward the street. Alice-Marie sent a smile in Libby's direction. "Here's Daddy now. I guess he decided to come home early."

Libby joined Alice-Marie at the top of the stairs while Mr. Daley parked the Model T at the curb. He came up the walk whistling and broke into a smile when he spotted the girls. "h.e.l.lo, Alice-Marie . . . Elisabet. Enjoying the fresh air?"

Alice-Marie slipped her hand through her father's elbow when he reached the porch. "Daddy, Libby was hoping you'd come home early. She has something important to discuss with you."

"Oh?" He fixed Libby with an attentive look.

"Yes, sir. You see-" Libby paused, memories of her time with Oscar Leidig crowding her mind. Where should she start? She opened her mouth and blurted, "Today I talked to a boy named Oscar Leidig, and-"

Mr. Daley's face contorted into an angry mask. He threw his hand upward, bringing Libby's sentence to a halt. "Kindly do not mention that name."

"S-sir?" Libby pressed her hand to her bodice. Her heart pounded beneath her palm.

The man's face mottled with red, and he growled through gritted teeth. "He is a lowdown, worthless excuse for a human being."

Alice-Marie gasped. "Daddy!"

Mr. Daley wiped his hand over his face. "Excuse me for being so harsh. But that young man's actions had an ill effect on every business owner in Clayton. Why, what if he'd chosen to barge into one of my businesses instead? It could be one of my employees dead by his gun."

He drew in a shuddering breath, and the high color in his cheeks slowly returned to normal. He patted Alice-Marie's hand. "Don't you worry, Alice-Marie. The boy will pay and pay dearly for taking the life of that drugstore clerk." Under his breath, he added, "As far as I'm concerned, hanging's too good for Oscar Leidig."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

Standing in the hallway outside the apartment where his parents lived, dressed in his fine suit with his hair neatly brushed and his one shoe buffed to new-penny shine, Pete felt as though he'd rushed backward through time. He was once again seven years old with a teacher-starred arithmetic paper in his hand, hoping Pa would beam with pride. He shook his head, dispelling the long-ago image. He wasn't there to make his parents proud; he was there to shame them.

"Pete? We goin' in?" Lorenzo tugged at Pete's jacket. His fingers-freshly washed in the sink at the hotel-held tight to the brown paper bag containing the needle and spool of gray thread.

Pete managed to give the little boy a wobbly smile. "Maybe you should go in without me, Lorenzo. Suppertime's coming, and your . . . our ma isn't expecting me. She might feel obligated to ask me to stay and eat, and then there won't be enough for everybody."

Dennis huffed. "Never enough." enough."

Pete's conscience panged at his brother's comment. He'd taken the boys to a little diner for lunch, and they'd wolfed down fried egg sandwiches and thick vegetable soup. Then they'd eyed a tall chocolate cake under a gla.s.s dome, but Pete had worried his limited budget wouldn't stretch far enough to cover cake and another train ticket, so he'd ignored their pleading looks. Now he wished he'd treated them to cake, even if it meant limping all the way back to Chambers on his peg leg.

"You two go on in," Pete encouraged, giving Lorenzo a gentle push toward the door.

"But I thought you wanted to visit." Confusion puckered Lorenzo's boyish face.

"I do want to visit, but I need to see both Pa and Ma." The names slipped out easily, catching Pete by surprise. "But Pa's not home right now, is he?"

The pair shook their heads in unison. "Reckon he's workin' at the brewery," Lorenzo chirped.

"So I'll have to come back later."

Dennis cast a furtive glance at Pete. "But . . . you're comin' back . . . right?"

Pete wished he could wrap Dennis in a hug that would heal all the insecurity and hurt of his brieflife. But he sensed if he reached out, the boy would retreat. Instead, he leaned down to look eye-to-eye with his brother. "I promise, Dennis. I'll come back." He'd keep that promise no matter what it took.

For long seconds, Dennis peered unsmilingly into Pete's eyes. Then, without a word, he grabbed Lorenzo's arm and hauled him inside. Pete waited until the door closed behind his brothers before heading out to the street. He paused on the slab where he'd met the boys that morning, trying to decide what to do. He could go to the hotel and relax until his pa got off work, then come back; or he could sit on the bench outside the little market across the street and wait. If he waited, he'd spare himself the cost of a cab ride. He decided to wait. Only three hours until the end of Pa's shift.

The sun had slipped downward, and Pete b.u.t.toned his jacket to protect himself from the cool, city-scented breeze. He settled onto the wood-slatted bench and observed people pa.s.sing. Some scurried, some slogged. Most sent curious glances in his direction, but few smiled and none stopped to talk. As the supper hour came and went, the scent of ripening fruit from the boxes in front of the market made his stomach growl. So he purchased a rosy apple and a small wedge of cheese from the kind-faced older lady behind the counter inside then returned to the bench to eat his simple supper.

The activity on the street slowed as evening fell. Pete checked his watch-seven-thirty. Only another half hour before Pa got off work. Would he come straight home, or would he stop off at a tavern? With it being Friday, it could be payday. Pete pinched the crisply ironed crease in his pant leg. Was he wasting his time sitting there watching for Pa?

A tall, rail-thin man in a stained white bib ap.r.o.n stepped out onto the shadowed sidewalk, broom in hand, and began busily sweeping dust and dried leaves toward the curb. The straw bristles came within inches of Pete's foot. Pete tucked his legs backward to avoid having dust tossed across his shoe. His wooden leg sc.r.a.ped against the cracked sidewalk, making his stump tingle. Automatically, he reached to ma.s.sage his leg.

The broom ceased its motion, and Pete's gaze followed the broom handle to the man's face. The man offered a sympathetic grimace. "Did I hurt'cha? Didn't mean to."

"No, you didn't hurt me." Pete cupped his knee, ignoring the persistent distant ache in his stump. "I can move if I'm in your way."

The man waved a callused hand. "Nah. Never sweep under the bench anyway, no matter how much my wife chides me about it. What difference does it make? n.o.body sits under there." He chuckled briefly, and then his eyes narrowed. "You new around here?"

Pete nodded.

"Thought so. Don't get too many gentlemen like yourself in this part o' the city." His eyes took in Pete's suit. "Mostly workin' cla.s.s. A few b.u.ms." He snorted. "Too many b.u.ms." Then he tipped his head, his gray eyebrows forming a V. "Wasn't for them fancy duds, though, I might mistake you for one of 'em. Lowest of the low lives right over there with his wife an' a whole pack o' young'uns." He pointed to the apartment building where Pete's family lived. "You look quite a bit like him."

Pete's mouth went dry. "That right?"

"Yup. But you wouldn't wanna be a.s.sociated with that lot. Sends his kids over here to steal from the stands." Shaking his head, the man put the broom to work again. " 'Course, I don't turn 'em in to the coppers. As my Norma keeps tellin' me, they're just kids doin' what their old man tells 'em to do. 'Sides that, we don't feel right lettin' a kid go hungry. . . ."

Pete swallowed, his belly twisting at the thought of little Lorenzo sneaking over to s.n.a.t.c.h an apple or peach out of hunger- or for fear of Pa. "That's kind of you."

The man shrugged, stacking both hands on the rounded top of the broom handle. "Least I can do." He swiped his hand down the front of his grimy ap.r.o.n and then stuck it out to Pete. "By the way, I'm Keith-Keith Branson."

Pete pushed to his feet and shook the man's hand. "Peter . . . Rowley." His conscience pinched, but he reasoned that after this weekend he would would be Pete Rowley. Surely it didn't hurt to try out his new name? "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Branson." be Pete Rowley. Surely it didn't hurt to try out his new name? "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Branson."

"Thank ya, Peter. An' call me Keith-everybody does. So what brings you down here?" He set his broom to work again.

Pete licked his lips. While chatting would make the time pa.s.s more quickly, he didn't want to tell this stranger the purpose of his visit. He chose a vague response. "Taking care of some long-overdue business."

"Does it have anything to do with the Leidig youngsters?"

Pete pulled out his handkerchief and coughed into it. "Why do you ask?"

Pausing in his work, Keith flashed a grin. "Saw you headin' off earlier with the two littlest boys. Kinda hard to miss, you in that fine suit an' all." He gripped his whiskery chin between his thumb and pointer finger. "Might I be hopin' somebody's finally gonna do somethin' to help them kids?"

Stepping near the man, Pete dropped his voice to a near whisper. Even though the sidewalk was deserted, he felt the need for secrecy. "What kind of help do they need?"

"What kind?" Keith blasted a humorless laugh. "Every kind! They're always dressed in rags, always lookin' hungry . . . Half the time them little ones spend their day playin' in the street 'stead o' goin' to school. My Norma worries herself sick over 'em. Only a matter o' time an' they'll all all be in big trouble with the law." be in big trouble with the law."

He jabbed his finger at Pete. "I seen purple marks on them kids, too. More'n once. Haven't said nothin' to Norma about it. She'd prob'ly march on over there an' apply a fryin' pan to the side o' that man's head, an' then she'd be in trouble." He scuffed the worn toe of his boot on the sidewalk. " 'Sides, a man's got a right to discipline his own kids like he sees fit. Even the Good Book says 'spare the rod and spoil the child.' Folks'd say we shouldn't be interferin', an' most times I'd say they're right."

Shaking his head, he wrapped his hands tight around the broom handle. Pete got the impression he wished the broom were Gunter Leidig's neck. "But to tell you the truth, Peter Rowley, I don't think them bruises are teachin' bruises. They're left by a mean drunk who takes his mad at the world out on his young'uns. An' whatever anybody else says, I say that ain't right. So-" Keith squared his shoulders and looked Pete straight in the face-"you gonna do anything?"

Pete's knees went weak as helplessness washed over him. "Keith, I'd like to help, but I'm not what you think. I'm just a university student, not a welfare officer or a policeman. I don't know what I can do."

"Oh." Keith's face sagged with disappointment. "Well . . ." Turning, he gave the broom's bristles a final half-hearted push across the pavement. "Sorry I bothered ya then. Just thought since you took off with them boys earlier today, you might know . . ." His voice trailed off as he seemed to focus on something in the distance. He stepped to the curb, his gaze narrowing.

Pete limped over beside him. "What is it?"