Beverly Barton - This Side of Heaven

"I'm working on it. It's just a matter of time."

Nate could hear the hesitation in his old friend's voice, and instinctively knew that there was more. Something Romero didn't want to talk about. "What is it?"

"I've got to ask you something," Romero said. "But I don't want an answer right now. Think about it and tell me tonight."

"What?"

"Do you know a man named Ramon Carranza?"

"Carranza?"

"Think about it, Nate. This Carranza has been showing a definite interest in you."

"Who is he?" Nate asked, certain he'd heard the name before. Where or when, he wasn't sure.

"We'll discuss it tonight. The Brazen Hussy. Nine," Romero said and hung up.

Nate replaced the receiver, picked up his beer and walked across the room. The whole den was filled with knives. Elaborate display cases covered the walls, the desk and the tables. Nate reached down on the wide pine table by the windows, picked up a small wood-and-glass case and opened it. He lifted a sinew-sewn hide sheath into his big hand, then removed the Apache scalping knife with its sinew-wrapped handle.

What does this guy Carranza have to do with Ryker? Nate asked himself. What ungodly secret has Nick Romero un­earthed? * * *

Cyn pushed the bits of lettuce and tomato around in the salad bowl. She had tried to convince herself that she didn't really want any of the chocolate-marshmallow ice cream she'd picked up at the store less than an hour ago. After all, she'd made it through the entire trial without reverting back to her old habit of using food as a crutch. But, with each bite she took, the nutritious veggies with which she'd con­cocted her enormous salad tasted more and more like card­board.

Shoving the bowl aside, Cyn stood up and turned toward the refrigerator. Don't do it, she told herself. Stay away from that ice cream and your hips will thank you for it.

With her hand on the freezer, Cyn closed her eyes, curs­ing under her breath. It's that man, she thought. He's got me acting irrationally.

She had survived Evan's death, four years of loneliness, the year-long trial to convict her husband's killer. She had sought refuge here at the beach so she could come to terms with Darren Kilbrew's senseless murder. Somehow she could make sense of it all. She had to. But what she didn't need was the intrusion of some stranger, a man she identified, foolishly, with her phantom dream lover.

She wished she hadn't been sitting at the desk beside the back windows when he'd taken his swim in the ocean this afternoon. If only she hadn't seen him again, she never would have made that hasty trip into town. There was something about the stranger that unnerved her. Somehow she knew he was no ordinary man. Her instincts told her that he was dangerous.

Cyn let her hand drop from the freezer door. Maybe what she needed was a swim, a vigorous swim in the cool spring­time ocean. Anything was better than this nervous hunger inside her, a hunger she had hoped chocolate-marshmallow ice cream could appease.

Leaving the kitchen, she headed for her bedroom to put on a bathing suit. Just as she walked down the hallway, the telephone rang. Who on earth? she wondered. Even though her father and her brother David knew she was here, she doubted either of them would have reason to call her. And Mimi certainly wouldn't be calling again. That left only one person.

Cyn opened the door and walked across the bedroom to where the portable phone lay at the foot of the twin bed by the window.

"Hello?"

"Cyn, how are you?" the man asked. "Everyone here at Tomorrow House is very concerned about you."

"I'm all right, Bruce," Cyn lied. She wasn't all right. She probably would have been if some savage-looking stranger hadn't appeared on her beach and stirred her imagination into overdrive. But, of course, she couldn't tell Reverend Bruce Tomlinson such a thing. "Is there something wrong? I know you wouldn't have disturbed my vacation other­wise."

"Well... I hated to call, and Mimi practically threatened me, but—"

Cyn thought Bruce sounded whiny. Scratch that. She thought he sounded more whiny than usual. The current director of Tomorrow House had little in common with Reverend Evan Porter, who, although he'd been the gen­tlest of gentlemen, had been quite capable. "What's the problem?"

"It's that Casey kid who came here about a week ago. I told you he would be a problem."

Cyn wanted to scream. For the past four years, Bruce had come to her with every situation too nasty, too dirty, or too much trouble for him to handle. "What has he done?"

"It's not what he's done," Bruce said. "It's what he's going to do tonight. Mary Alice overheard Casey on the pay phone. I thought maybe I should call the police, but Mimi is totally opposed."

"Bruce, you're not making any sense." For the eleven millionth time in four years, Cyn wanted to shake dear Reverend Bruce Tomlinson until his teeth rattled.

"Casey is meeting some guy tonight to buy drugs, and he's... he's taking Bobby with him."

"Bobby!" Cyn had suspected that Casey was a user, but Tomorrow House had made many a runaway addict wel­come for brief periods of time, had even helped a few kick the habit. Evan's death had been the only tragic result of giving safe haven to a junkie.

"I thought I should just confront the boys, but Mimi said confronting them would do no good, that Casey will leave in a few days and Bobby might go with him if I push him too far. She suggested that I speak to Bobby alone."

"Did you?" Cyn asked, praying silently. Bobby was a good kid, only thirteen. He'd been at Tomorrow House for nearly a month, longer than most, and there was a chance he would eventually agree to try another foster home.

"I couldn't. He's gone."

"What?" Cyn cried, gripping the phone tightly.

"And Casey's gone, too. I imagine they left early for their night on the town."

"Did Mary Alice overhear where they were going to meet this dealer?" Cyn asked.

"Some place called the Brazen Hussy at around nine-thirty, tonight. I've never heard of it, but I can guess by its name what sort of establishment it is. What on earth am I to do?" Bruce's voice sounded as distraught as Cyn felt.

"Don't do anything Bruce. It isn't our place to play po­licemen with the kids who come to Tomorrow House." Cyn recited the words she'd been told over and over again. "If we start calling in the police, the word will get out and none of these boys and girls will come to us when they need help so desperately."

"But Bobby—"

"I'll take care of this."

"What are you going to do?" Bruce asked.

"I'm not sure, but I'D think of something." Cyn knew she should take her own advice, but she also knew that she wouldn't.

"I'm sorry I bothered you at a time like this. I realize how badly you needed to get away from all the problems here, but I didn't know who else to call. You're our tower of strength around here, Cyn. We just don't know how to deal with you being... well, out of commission, so to speak."

"Don't tell Mimi that you called me," Cyn advised the minister. "She'd never bake you another pineapple upside-down cake as long as you live."

Bruce chuckled in his good-natured way. "Thanks, Cyn. You take care, and hurry on back to us. We miss you."

"Goodbye, Bruce. And don't worry about Bobby. Just leave him to me."

Cyn punched the off button and lowered the antenna, then tossed the telephone back onto the twin bed. She moved her overnight bag off the wicker settee, put it on the floor and sat down. Dear God, what was she going to do?

Bobby, abandoned at the age of five by his parents, had moved from one foster home to another. His last foster fa­ther had physically abused him and he'd run away. He'd been eleven at the time and had been on the streets ever since. Cyn could only imagine the nightmares the boy had lived through, but she knew one thing for certain. Bobby had never used drugs.