Amanda Stevens - The Innocent

“Didn’t you people even talk to that woman? We should have known about that car twenty-four hours ago. It could have made all the difference.”

“You don’t know that,” Abby had retorted. “Sara Beth might not have been the child Fayetta saw in the back seat. And besides, if it hadn’t been for me, we still wouldn’t even know about the white car, and we wouldn’t know about the other two possible witnesses. I didn’t see you glean much information from her, especially after you alienated her five seconds into the interview.”

She was right, of course. Abby had an easy rapport with the locals that made them trust her in a way they never would an outsider. But that knowledge didn’t lessen Sam’s frustration. In truth, it probably added to it.

He didn’t know why Abby Cross grated on his nerves the way she did, or why he felt an almost compulsive need to pick an argument with her and to find fault with her. Maybe it was the heat and the tension of working a life-and-death case.

Or maybe it was because he just didn’t want to acknowledge the sexual tension that had been dancing between them like a live wire all afternoon.

She’s too young for you, a voice warned inside his head. Too young and too naive.

But, unfortunately, his body was telling him something else.

Marcus Pratt’s derisive snicker drew Sam’s attention back to the conversation with an unpleasant thud. “Agent Mulder you definitely ain’t,” the kid taunted. “Skinner maybe,” he added, alluding to an older—and balder—character on the same show.

Sam suppressed the urge to run his hand through his hair—still thick in most places—along with the desire to muzzle the boy’s smart mouth. At fifteen, Marcus Pratt had obviously developed an unhealthy contempt for authority figures, male ones especially. It was an attitude that would likely carry him far in life. First to school detention. Then juvenile hall. Then prison, if something didn’t happen to get him back on track.

Sam recognized the type. The father had deserted the family, leaving a young mother to cope with the difficulties of raising two boys. But Tami Pratt was no shrinking violet. Sam had gotten the impression that the woman’s personality could be a bit overwhelming at times, and her oldest son was desperately trying to assert his masculine dominance. To make matters worse, he was slight for his age. What he lacked in stature, he tried to make up for in bluster.

His thirteen-year-old brother was almost as tall, but there was no mistaking the pecking order. Mitchell hung back, swiping his dirty blond hair out of his face while he allowed his brother to do all the talking.

“We’d like to ask you boys a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Abby said.

Marcus cocked his head toward her. “So who’s she supposed to be? Agent Scully?”

His insolent gaze raked over Abby’s jeans and T-shirt in a manner that set Sam’s teeth on edge. Was it his imagination, or had Sergeant Cross’s clothing gotten more snug as the day wore on?

Apparently he shared the same image with Marcus Pratt. The kid gave a low whistle. “Not bad,” he muttered, staring at Abby in a way no kid should be allowed to.

Leering should be reserved for dirty old men, Sam decided. Like himself.

“I’m Sergeant Cross,” Abby said coolly, flashing her ID in Marcus’s face. Her shield was clipped to the waistband of her jeans, and she made sure the kid saw it. “I’m a detective with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. We’re investigating the disappearances of two little girls.”

“So? What do you expect us to do about it? Pin a medal on you or something?” He glanced at his grinning brother.

“The girls’ names are Emily Campbell and Sara Beth Brodie. Maybe you heard about the disappearances on the news?” When he merely stared at her sullenly, Abby’s mouth tightened. “We have reason to believe you two boys were in the vicinity at the time Sara Beth Brodie went missing.”

Marcus flicked back a long strand of hair from his face. “What do we look like, kidnappers?”

“We’re not accusing you of anything. But we’ve got a witness who can place you on Mimosa Street near Holyoke Cemetery at around 3:30 yesterday afternoon.”

“You ain’t got squat,” the kid said with practiced aplomb. “We were home all afternoon. Right, Mitch?”

The younger boy swallowed and nodded, his gaze darting first to Sam and then back to his brother. “Uh, yeah.”

“That’s not exactly what your mother told us,” Sam said.

Marcus’s face turned beet red. “You already talked to our old lady about this? Hell, man. What’d you have to go and do that for?”

At last, a chink in the kid’s armor, Sam thought.

“Let’s try this again,” Abby said, pushing her dark hair behind her ears. “Were you and your brother on Mimosa Street yesterday or not?”

Another glance passed between the two boys. “What if we were?”

“Were you almost hit by a car?”

His gaze narrowed. “How’d you know—” He clammed up, realizing he’d given himself away.

“About that car,” Abby said firmly. “Do you remember what color it was?”

“Maybe white. Maybe not.”

“Was it white or wasn’t it?” Sam demanded.

Marcus slanted him a surly glance, almost daring Sam to get violent with him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Sam took the kid’s arm, not applying enough pressure to hurt him, but making sure the boy knew he meant business. “Now you listen to me, kid. Two little girls are missing. Their lives are at stake. I don’t have the time or the patience for your attitude. You’re a bad ass. Okay. We got it. Now answer Sergeant Cross’s questions.” He didn’t say “or else.” He didn’t have to.

Something that might have been respect glimmered in the boy’s eyes before he replaced it with a scowl. He rubbed his arm. “The car was white.”

“Did you recognize the make or model?” Abby asked, flashing Sam a look he couldn’t quite fathom.

Marcus shrugged. “How should I know? I didn’t hang around long enough to find out.” But he eased away from Sam as he said it.

“It was a Chevy,” Mitchell said, speaking up for the first time. “Maybe a ’91 or ’92 Caprice. Something like that.”

Sam gazed down at the boy. “You sure about that, son?”

“Don’t call him son,” Marcus snapped. “You’re not his old man.”

“I know cars,” Mitchell said shyly. “My dad’s got a ’67 Camaro we aim to fix up.”

“Yeah, right. When hell freezes over,” Marcus muttered.

“Mitchell.” Sam walked over and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was thin and bony, making him seem younger than his age and vulnerable somehow.

For a moment, Sam’s heart seemed to stop. It had been a long time since he’d been around kids. After their son had died, he and Norah had cut themselves off from friends and acquaintances with children. Eventually, they’d cut themselves off from each other. Norah had found solace in her own way, and Sam had immersed himself in work, in cases so sordid and gruesome he had no time to think of his own misery. To wonder what might have been.

But as he gazed down at Mitchell Pratt, he suddenly saw another boy’s eyes staring up at him. He suddenly wondered if he would have been the kind of father a son would be proud of. The kind of father a boy could count on.

He wondered if he would have been a better father than he had been a husband.

Not that it mattered. He’d lost Jonathan to cancer, Norah to neglect, and Sam didn’t plan to ever remarry. And now he was too old to start a family, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Jonathan could never be replaced, and besides, if he’d learned anything in his twenty-year journey into darkness, it was that too damned much of this world was not a nice place for children.