Roots? Wings? He didn’t know. He just needed to get out of the house and away from his next-door neighbor.
It was after two in the morning when he got home from dinner at a seafood restaurant and a long drive up the coast and back. He slid the glass door open. Outside, the stars shone brightly, but he ended up looking over at the cottage instead. The lamps were on inside. Grace must still be organizing the place.
Or maybe she was afraid. No city lights out here.
It had taken time for him to get used to the darkness, too.
BOBBY RAY, AGE 15
The library had halls of books and quiet alcoves. Bobby Ray pulled books and turned pages, making quick sketches of Civil War uniforms and gear. He got so immersed in pictures of Gettysburg, he didn’t think about the time until his stomach cramped with hunger. He hadn’t had breakfast or lunch. Books still open on the table, Bobby Ray left the library and headed for a hot dog wagon. He bought two hot dogs and ate on the steps of the Civic Auditorium, imagining what he’d paint on the pristine white surfaces of government buildings.
He returned to the library to finish the drawings, then headed for Reaper’s party. It would still be going strong.
An ambulance and two police cars with lights flashing were parked in front of Reaper’s apartment building. Probably another domestic disturbance. Reaper laughed the other day about a guy getting knifed by his old lady when she caught him coming out of another woman’s apartment. Bobby Ray headed for the side of the building, figuring he could go up the fire escape and use the door on the roof to get into the building. As he moved among the curious bystanders, he overheard a man talking. “. . . couple of boys got shot at a party on the third floor . . .”
Bobby Ray stopped. “What’d you say?”
The man looked at him and frowned. “You live in there? I’ve seen you around.”
“I have friends in the building.”
“Good thing you weren’t with them.”
Bobby Ray got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Parties went on all the time in this place. It didn’t mean anyone he knew got shot or did the shooting.
Two paramedics brought out a stretcher. Bobby Ray exhaled a curse when he recognized Reaper. He was ashen, unconscious, an IV attached to his arm. Bobby Ray tried to push through, but a cop blocked his way and held up a hand in warning. “Stay back.”
“He’s a friend of mine!”
“Then you’ll want him to get to the hospital.”
Reaper didn’t look good.
As the ambulance left, sirens blaring, a coroner’s van pulled into the vacant space. Bobby Ray waited, feeling sick. When the men finally came out with the gurney, Bobby Ray knew by the size and shape of the body bag that Lardo was inside it. He struggled not to shed the hot tears burning his eyes.
Bobby Ray spent the rest of the night spraying wrath on the walls of the Tenderloin. He emptied his marker and every spray can in his backpack. A cop car rounded the corner and screeched to a halt. Bobby Ray ran. Tires screamed as the squad car backed up and spun. Bobby Ray bolted down the nearest alley and over a wall. Stripping off his gloves, he tossed them into a pile of trash. He heard the siren’s whoop-whoop and saw flashes of light as he heaved his backpack behind a Dumpster. Not slowing, he cut across the street. Another squad car pulled right in front of him. Bobby Ray’s momentum took him over the hood. He hit the pavement hard and lay stunned, gasping for breath.
A cop stood over him. “You okay, kid? Anything broken?”
Bobby Ray managed a laugh. Okay? Broken? He felt betraying tears spill. Humiliated, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He never cried! The officer told him to stay still; they’d call an ambulance. Groaning, Bobby Ray sat up. Shoving helpful hands away, he stood on wobbly legs. He didn’t want an ambulance. Why were you running, kid? I’m late, and my mama will be worried. Is that so? We’ll give you a ride home. Where does your mama live? Have I done anything wrong, Officer? That’s what I’m wondering, kid. You want to try a different story? Why were you running?
Another squad car arrived and parked behind them. An older cop got out, shifted his thick leather belt, and pulled out a heavy Maglite. A younger cop followed. The older man aimed a beam of light straight into Bobby Ray’s face. “Gotcha! This boy’s been busy tonight.”
Bobby Ray winced, but didn’t look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hold out your hands.”
Bobby Ray did what he was told, knowing the cop was looking for paint stains on his fingers and clothing. Some taggers didn’t have the brains to wear gloves. “I’m clean. You wanna check behind my ears?”
“No need.” He asked the other officers which direction Bobby Ray had been running. Their answer pleased him.
Surprised, Bobby Ray found his wrists bound with zip-tie cuffs and himself shoved into the rear of a squad car. He leaned his head back against the seat and swore. The older officer drove while the younger radioed the station. The older officer looked at Bobby Ray in the mirror. “You got messy tonight, Bobby Ray.”
Pulse rocketing, Bobby Ray played dumb. “Who’s Bobby Ray?”
“Bobby Ray Dean, I’ve had my eye on you for a while. I know where you live. I know who your friends are.” He looked at the road ahead. “You’re lucky you weren’t at that party tonight.”
“Is that what you think? I’m lucky?”
“And too stupid to know it.”
If the officer knew about the party, maybe he knew what happened. “Who did the shooting?”
He didn’t get an answer.
Bobby Ray spent the next few days at the juvenile detention center, going through the drill. His caseworker, Ellison Whitcomb, had retired and moved to Florida. The new one, Sam Carter, eventually showed up with Bobby Ray’s file. Carter didn’t have Whitcomb’s cynicism, but he was a realist.
“They’re not going to be lenient this time, Bobby Ray.”
“You’re assuming I’m guilty.”
Sam Carter gave him a wry smile. “You want to sit there and tell me you’re not?”
Furious, Bobby Ray shoved the chair back and paced. “They haven’t got any evidence!”
“They have all they need. This might be a good thing, Bobby Ray.”
“A good thing? Tell me how.”
“It’ll get you out of the Tenderloin.”
“What if I don’t want to go?”
“I doubt you know what you want. Now the court decides.”
Bobby Ray found himself living in temporary lockup with kids older and tougher. He knew how to cover his fear while living in a dormitory with fourteen other roommates. He kept his eyes open and his back to the wall. He barely slept because every sound jarred him awake. He kept his distance, recognizing predators.
A guard brought Bobby Ray to a room furnished with a metal table and two chairs. He expected to see Sam Carter, but a tall, broad-shouldered stranger in a gray suit, blue shirt, and tie stood waiting. He smiled as he extended his hand. “I’m Willard Rush. I’m handling your case.” He had a firm grip. Willard Rush glanced at the guard, and the man went out, closing the door quietly behind him. “Sit down, Bobby Ray. We have some serious talking to do.”
Clasping his hands on the table, Bobby Ray gave Rush what he hoped was a cool look. He figured the judge had reviewed whatever evidence the cops had and decided it wasn’t enough.
“You have a court hearing Thursday next week.”
His stomach turned over. A week? “They didn’t have anything on me.” Rush’s expression changed enough to make Bobby Ray forget his fear and get mad. “You think I’m lying?”
“You had paint on your sleeve that matched the graffiti on eight walls.”
“So what? A little paint doesn’t prove anything. Maybe I accidentally brushed up against something and got it on me.” He leaned forward. “They need more hard evidence than that.”
“They’d need more in the adult world, but you’re a juvenile. The DA’s office took that little bit of paint and ran with it. They’re doing what they think best.”