Mended Hearts (16 page)

J
eff watched the technician troubleshoot the factory's robotic application system, a machine crucial to on-time delivery of a current military contract. Quick glances to his watch intensified the loss of time, a day when he'd planned to see Hannah. Talk with her. See if he could set things straight.

“You got somewhere to be?”

The tech looked exaggeratedly at Jeff's watch. Jeff shook his head. “No, sorry, I just had things scheduled for today.”

“Don't we all?” The tech resumed his position on the floor while adjustable work lamps flooded his area with light. “If it's shopping, go online. If it's family, I got nothin'.”

Trent's foster father had reacted badly to his latest round of chemo. Trent had headed south, leaving Jeff on his own for a weekend that appeared worry free yesterday. Today?

Jeff squared his shoulders, refusing to sigh, but hating having things not right with Hannah. Was she avoiding his calls deliberately?

His gut said yes, and that made talking to her imperative, but so was this work obligation. Jeff knew his job, he understood the consequences if supplies got held up in manufacturing. But right now he just wanted a few free hours to see
his girl. Convince her he wasn't the conniver she thought him to be.

One look at the tech's face said that wasn't about to happen today.

 

Creak…

Hannah swung around, unable to identify the sound. She hadn't bothered turning all the library lights on, but foreboding clouds had deepened the gloom in the outer reaches of the library. Tall shelves blocked the little light the window offered, leaving her desk area lit while the rest of the room was dark. She checked the online forecast and sighed at the thought of more rain, but then it was November in the Alleghenies. Rain was a given.

Creeeaaak…

This time the noise drew her up straight, awareness crawling up her spine, tiny hairs rising in protest along her neck.

She saw nothing.

But she
felt
something, and she'd taught science long enough to understand the God-given gift of instinctive fear.

Why hadn't she locked the door? Why hadn't she turned on the lights?

Because this is Jamison, you ninny,
her inner voice scolded.
You're letting your imagination run away with you. Turn on the lights, sip your coffee and finish up.

She stood, crossed to the light panel inside the door and hit the bank of switches.

Dominic.

He stood framed in the back door, his hair messed up by the wind, his face haunted.

Hannah's heart seized. The clutch of surprise coupled with the dark skies, strong wind and the young man's angst transported her back in time to another place, another boy, another dark, stormy day.

Stay calm. Stay connected. Get to your cell phone.

She pulled in a breath, found it impossible to draw in fully with her chest constricted, and then worked to relax her gaze, her shoulders. “How did you get in? And why are you here?”

He came forward slowly, his eyes locked with hers, his look…

She'd seen that look before, she knew it well. Depression. Desolation. Desperation. The last time had preceded an out-of-control situation governed by a power-hungry gang of boys with no conscience, but this time…

Maybe this time she could help.

And then again…

Dominic withdrew a small handgun from the left-hand pocket of his trench coat as Hannah rethought her position. She held his gaze, nodded toward the gun and kept her voice firm with God's help. “Lose the gun, dude.”

He shook his head, his jaw trembling.

Guide me, Lord. You wouldn't have brought me all this way, over all this time, without a reason. Give me strength. And wisdom. And please, please, please…keep me safe. Don't let me miss out on this new chance at a life renewed. Please.

She was near the door, but not close enough to escape, and she had no clue what Dominic intended. Did he want to hurt her? Hurt himself? Seeing the pain in his eyes, his face, she knew she couldn't turn away, but she wasn't willing to take foolish risks either. She thought of Jeff and regret stabbed her heart. Of Caitlyn, her little goddaughter, the niece she hadn't held yet.

But there was something about this boy that encouraged her to take a chance.

A big chance.

Making a decision, she moved toward her desk area and motioned him to come with her. “Sit down and tell me what's going on. But I don't talk to guns. If you want my help, lose the weapon. I mean it.”

He stared at her for long ticks of the clock, then slid the gun back into his pocket.

Hannah sent him a disbelieving look. “Really?” She jerked her head toward the DVD drop box. “Put it in there, turn the lock and give me the key. Then we'll talk.”

He paused, his indecision hiking her fears, but she absolutely refused to let dread govern this scene. She'd worked long and hard to retake her life, her destiny, and no way was she about to let anything mess that up. Or mess him up for that matter.

Although this kid had been raked over the coals already.

He headed for the lockbox, then darted a look over his shoulder as if expecting her to go for her cell phone or the library phone.

Hannah did neither; her inaction soothed the set of his jaw.

Good.

He put the gun into the box, turned the key and tossed it to her. “You know I can get to it from outside, right?”

She nodded and shrugged. “But I know you won't. You didn't come here to hurt me, but you're thinking of hurting yourself and I won't stand for that in my library. Way too much cleanup. So sit.” She motioned him to the chair alongside her and kept her face serene but strong. “And tell me what's going on. What's happened?”

“They're sending me away.”

Of course they were. “Where?”

“Kessler Academy.”

“Pricey.”

He scowled. “Nothing but the best.”

“Why?”

“Because they don't let you make choices at Kessler. If you're lagging in any area, they force you to take part, their sole goal being the production of young men of the highest quality, Ivy League–ready candidates.”

“So if Penn or Princeton was your goal, you're all set. Tell
me, Dominic.” She put a hand on his arm after he sat down. “What are your goals?”

He dropped his head into his hands and grimaced. “I don't have goals. I just get by.”

“Why?”

He looked up and frowned. “Because it's what I do.”

“What you
choose
to do.”

His frown deepened. “Well. Maybe.”

“So choose differently.”

“It's too late.”

“Not as long as you're breathing, dude. What do you want out of life right now? As a teenager? And what do you want tomorrow? And next year? What do you see yourself doing, Dominic?”

“Designing.”

Hannah paused, surprised.

Dominic pulled a handful of folded papers from his pocket. “I like to design things. My mother was an artist.”

“Really?” Hannah opened the sheaf of papers and drew a breath, surprised by the depth and beauty of the commercial designs she held. “You did these? I mean, they're not some building you copied from seeing it online? Because, dude, these are gorgeous.”

“You think?”

“Oh, Dominic, I know. Are the designs workable?”

The answer was there in the keen look of his eye, his quick nod. “That's the fun part of doing this, making sure the weight-bearing specs complement the beauty.”

“Have you taken Computer-Aided Design?”

He shook his head. “My father won't let me. But Mr. Eschler and Mr. Bernard let me into the CAD lab when no one's around.”

“They do, huh?” Hannah would have to rethink her assessment of the gnarly school custodian. It took a good heart to
see the brilliant artist inside the angry child's body. “Do they have this option at Kessler?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” Hannah handed the speculative buildings and bridges back to him. “We need to talk to your father.”

“My father doesn't listen. He talks. Then he walks away.”

“Did you ever wonder why that is?” Hannah crept into this subject, not wanting to quench the light in Dominic's eyes.

“I know why. I remind him of my mother.”

“And yet you look like your father.” Hannah let the words dangle, then tapped the papers clutched in Dominic's hand. “Maybe
this
is what reminds him of your mother. Her talent, her artistry. And then you couple that with your anger and depression…” She sat back and let him absorb the idea, the suggestion that his behavior inspired his father's negative reactions. “Maybe your father is scared to death you'll do what your mother did, and doesn't know how to face that. Or change it.”

The spark of recognition said her idea intrigued him so she continued. “Perhaps you can take charge of the situation by changing your actions, therefore inspiring different reactions from your father. Maybe you can find a common ground.”

“Not with
her
around.”

“Variables are a part of scientific exploration,” Hannah reminded him. “Every researcher deals with the vagaries of the uncontrollable. But if your father is more content, your stepmother might be happier. Although I don't exactly see her as the happy-go-lucky type. You know that, don't you?”

A tiny smile quirked Dominic's mouth. “I get that.”

“So…”

A police bullhorn interrupted their exchange.

Fear replaced Dominic's softened features, and Hannah knew she had two immediate tasks: to reestablish calm with Dominic because she had no idea what else he might have
secreted in that coat, and to let the authorities outside know all was well.

He started to stand.

Hannah stopped him. “Stay low.” She grabbed her cell phone. “Let me talk to them. I'll explain that we're fine, that all is well.”

His stark terror belied her gentle words, but she held his hand while she dialed 911, hoping to stave off a weapons-drawn confrontation.

 

Hannah was in trouble. Big trouble.

Jeff raced to his car, Megan's worried voice hounding him. Why had he encouraged her to go back to teaching? Why didn't he put his foot down and condemn the foolish risk of his grandmother's plan? He'd seen the fear in Hannah's eyes, the stark reality of Ironwood imprinted on her face as she told her story.

He'd failed her by not taking her side, and now her well-being lay in the hands of a depressed teen with a gun, according to Megan.

Fear and anguish gripped his heart, his soul. Fear that something would happen before he could get to her, and angst that he didn't have sense enough to protect her. Put her first.

Protect her, God. Yes, I'm angry, we'll discuss that later, but please, please, please. Protect her. Guard her. Uphold her with Your righteousness, cradle her in the palm of Your hand. Please.

A blockade stopped him two blocks short of the library. The rain and wind drove the dark mood of the situation. The police had set up a command center at the convenience store on Route Nineteen. Jeff parked the car, barreled out and headed for the store.

“Hey. You. Back in the car, buddy, and head south. The road's closed.”

Jeff raised his arms in the air. “My fiancée is in that library with the kid. I'm not going anywhere, Pete.”

Pete Monroe peered closer, recognized Jeff and gave a quick nod. “Come with me.”

He took Jeff into the store. What looked like commotion outside was well-organized within, but all Jeff heard was six words.

“We're in position.”

“Then let's go.”

He grabbed a detective's arm. “You're going in? When she's in there with a kid brandishing a gun? Are you crazy?”

An older man stood off to the side, his hands twining, his expression dark with terror.

The detective met Jeff's gaze with forced calm. “We're not going in, we're just announcing our presence. The blinds are drawn, we've got a tactical team coming so we can snake a camera in from the side vent. But they won't be here for a few minutes, and maybe the kid will negotiate.”

“He's my son. He's got a name. It's Dominic,” the father spouted from across the aisle. “Dominic Fantigrossi the third.”

The detective nodded, his face grave. “I know that, Professor, and we're not trying to be insensitive. It's just a matter of working this out with no one getting hurt. Not Miss Moore.” He directed his look to Jeff and Jeff read the concern in his eyes. “Or Dominic.”

A part of Jeff wanted to ream out the older man, wondering just what a parent did to a kid to make him react this way, but another part remembered a boy whose father broke every civil and moral law known to mankind twenty years before…

He
could have been a Dominic. For whatever reason, he chose to bury himself in work, striving to excel, but he remembered the embarrassment, the pain, the humiliation of being Neal Brennan's son.

Oh, yeah. He could have snapped back then and knowing
that was the only thing that kept him on his side of the room, away from the distraught father.

Protect her, please. Watch over her. And the kid. Please.

The detective's face darkened as he listened to whatever was being said through his earpiece, then he glanced Jeff's way, his jaw set. “We've made contact with Miss Moore. She wants to talk to you.”

Jeff's heart leaped at this unexpected turn of events. “Have her call my cell.”

The detective shook his head. “We've got to use ours for monitoring.” He pointed to a communications setup beside the cash register. A cable snaked from the box to a van outside. Jeff moved closer just as the phone rang. He snatched it up, trying to disguise his fear. “Hannah?”