Sharon Sala - A Place To Call Home

“Hanna—”

He stopped but didn’t turn around, leaving Shaw to say what must be said to the back of his head.

“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Judd slammed the door behind him. It was all the comment he was capable of making.

Shaw grabbed the phone and punched in a series of numbers, frowning as he waited for an answer.

“Dr. Wilson…it’s me, Shaw. I’ve just put Judd Hanna on medical leave. He’s due in your office at nine in the morning. Yes, he’s borderline now. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I want it stopped before I lose him, too.”

He hung up, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It hadn’t been easy being tough on Hanna. He liked the man, even admired him. And losing a partner of fifteen years would have been difficult for anyone. At least now things were on the right track.

But for Judd, everything was off balance. For the first time since he took the oath of office, he had nowhere to go but his apartment. He hesitated on the street outside the station house, then headed for the bar down the street. His apartment wasn’t home. It was just where he slept, and it was far too early to go to bed.

The bar was cool and fairly quiet. The afternoon crowd had yet to arrive. Judd slid onto a stool and combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. How in hell had his life gotten so mixed up?

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

“Bourbon,” Judd muttered.

The bartender slid a bowl of pretzels his way and then went to pour the drink. Judd pushed the bowl aside. He didn’t need to eat. He needed to forget.

“Here you go, buddy,” the bartender said.

Judd grabbed the shot glass and lifted it to his lips, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror over the bar. But something happened between recognition and focus. Instead of seeing the man that he was, he saw the boy that he’d been. His belly knotted and his heart suddenly ached as he let himself remember.

The pink slip in Joe Hanna’s back pocket rode his conscience like a hot poker. Overwhelmed at being fired from another dead-end job, he’d spent the last four hours, and what was left of his money, drowning his sorrows at the local bar. The only thing he had left was a constant, burning rage at the disappointments life had dealt him, and the burden of a ten-year old son he had never wanted.

As he started up the walk to his house, it occurred to him that the house was dark. He squinted against the glare of streetlights and cursed. That damned kid. If he wasn’t home from school, he would tan his hide.

It never occurred to Joe that more than seven hours had passed since his son, Judd, would have come home from school, or that he’d come home to a house with no food. Joe felt no guilt for his lack of concern. He kept a roof over their heads, which was more than his daddy had done for him.

He stumbled as he started up the steps, falling forward and then catching himself on his hands and knees just before his face hit the porch. A sharp pain pierced the palm of his right hand. He got up swearing and staggered into the house, turning on the lights, room by room.

“Boy! Where the hell are you?”

No one answered. Joe cursed again as he stumbled to the kitchen sink. He looked down at his hand. It was bleeding. He wiped it on the front of his shirt, then reached for the cabinet. The second shelf down from the top was where he kept his liquor. He needed a drink, but there was nothing there.

He slammed the door shut with a bang. “Goddamn it, Judd Hanna! You answer me, boy! What did you do with my whiskey?”

Again, the rooms echoed from the sound of Joe’s voice. Rage grew. His belly burned and his head was swimming. In a minute, he was going to lie down, but not before he got his hands on that damned kid.

Joe started through the rooms, shouting Judd’s name. Doors slammed. A lamp tumbled to the floor and shattered into pieces, and still no sign of the boy. He was furious. The shame of being fired, coupled with the frustrations of his life in general, had boiled into a rage. He staggered back into the kitchen, swaying where he stood and staring around the house in disbelief.

It took a while for him to realize that the door leading down to the basement was slightly ajar. A cold smile broke the anger on his face. Seconds later, he stood at the landing, shouting Judd’s name into the darkness below.

The basement walls were damp with condensation, the odors a choking blend of dust and mold. Something scurried in the darkness beneath ten-year-old Judd Hanna’s feet and he stifled a gasp. Yet the fear of the unknown was far less sinister to him than the man standing at the landing of the stairs.

“Judd…Judd, boy, I know you’re down there. Answer me, damn it.”

Judd held his breath, afraid to swallow for fear he’d be heard.

When his father started down the steps, every muscle in Judd’s body went tense.

No, no, no…God, don’t let him find me.

“Answer me, you sorry little bastard. I know you’re down there,” Joe growled.

Judd squeezed his eyes shut and shrank a little farther against the wall. If he couldn’t see his father, then his father couldn’t see him. It was a game he’d played in his mind for more years than he cared to count. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

“What did you do with my whiskey, boy? Answer me, you hear? Don’t make me come down there and get you.”

Judd gritted his teeth, struggling against the need to cry. It had been years since he’d given his father the satisfaction of knowing he could be hurt.

Joe cursed beneath his breath and reached for the light switch. But nothing happened. He cursed even louder, unaware that Judd had taken the bulb out in hopes he wouldn’t be found. But to Judd’s dismay, his father started down the steps, fumbling his way through the dark and cursing with every breath.

Judd slid silently to the floor and doubled over on himself, trying to become invisible. His eyes were closed, his breathing almost nonexistent.

“I know you’re here,” Joe whispered.

Judd’s heart was pounding and the bitter taste of fear was in his mouth.

Please God, if you’re out there…take me away. Take me away.

“You can’t hide from me. Come out now and take your punishment like a man.”

Bile rose in the back of Judd’s throat. Please, God, please. Not again. Not again. Don’t let him—

“Gotcha!” Joe said.

When the hand closed around the back of Judd’s neck, he knew it was over. He did not go willingly. Fighting against the pain of his father’s grasp, he struggled to pull free. If he could get to the stairs, he could get away. He would be safe after that. His father was bound to pass out soon. He always passed out. Those were the only times Judd ever knew peace.

Joe backhanded his son, wincing when one of Judd’s teeth accidentally cut the back of his knuckle.

“Don’t you bite me, you little bastard,” Joe snarled.

Judd’s mouth was already swelling as he tried to break free of his father’s grasp.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy, I swear.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Joe snapped, and backhanded him again. “Why didn’t you answer me when I called you? And what the hell did you do with my whiskey?”

Reeling from the force of the blows, Judd couldn’t think, let alone answer. All he could do was duck and hold up his hands, trying to dodge his father’s fists.

It was futile.

Joe was too far gone in his rage to think about what he was doing. In his mind, he was striking out at the man who had fired him and the bartender who’d refused him a last drink. He saw the woman who had laughed at him as he stumbled out of the bar, and himself in a cycle of self-destruction with no way out.