Rainbow's End (9 page)

“I didn't especially like the looks of that.” His voice was quiet, his eyes steely.

“Me, neither.”

“You said you just started noticing the boy the day I arrived?”

“Yes. That afternoon. I've never seen the older man until today, although the owner of the neighborhood grocery store did tell me that an ‘old hermit,' as she described him, lived on the adjacent property.”

“But no mention of a child?”

“No.”

“He must be a new arrival, then.”

Tears blurred Jill's vision, and she blinked them away. “I think he needs help, but I'm not sure what we can do.”

“It's difficult to do much unless there's evidence of abuse of some kind.” Keith had had to intervene in a few of these situations in his prior life, and it had never been easy. Or pretty.

“We don't have that.”

“I know.”

“What do you think we should do?”

He almost said
pray,
but stopped himself. “Let's see if the boy comes back again. Now that the ice is broken, he may warm up to you and start to talk. If he does, he might tell us something that would give us grounds to go to the authorities.”

“If Dominic couldn't get him to talk, I doubt I'll have any better luck.” She turned and looked into the shadowy woods. “But I'll pray about it, ask God to give me some guidance.”

Her comment didn't surprise Keith. He already knew that Jill had a strong faith. He'd seen the worn Bible she kept in her kitchen. She quoted scripture, prayed before meals, led a godly life. At one time, he, too, would have turned to God in a situation like this. Except, God had stopped listening to him long ago. But maybe He'd listen to Jill.

Keith hoped so. Because he suspected that Kyle needed all the help he could get.

F
or two days after Deb and Dominic left, Jill saw no trace of her young visitor. And the longer he was absent, the more worried she became. Was he being mistreated by the gruff older man who had summoned him from the picnic? The question gnawed at her, but she had no idea how to find the answer.

Then, on the third morning, as she turned from putting away her gardening tools in the shadowy shed, she found Kyle hovering in the doorway. A swift perusal confirmed that, at least on the visible parts of his body, he bore no ill effects of the older man's anger. Relief flooded through her.

“I'm glad you came back, Kyle.” She smiled, gesturing toward the small, insect-filled jar clutched in his hands. “Did you come to feed Homer? I think he misses all the attention you and Dominic gave him.”

His only response was a hesitant nod.

“Good. I'm happy to turn the job over to you again. He's grown quite a bit in just the past two days. Pretty soon I think he'll be ready to test his wings. Go ahead, take a look. I have to go back to the house anyway.”

As she moved toward the door, he stepped inside, then edged away from her toward the bird.

“I'll be painting, and Keith is gone to Friday Harbor, over on the next island. He won't be back until late tonight. Spend as much time as you like with Homer.”

With a lighter heart, Jill headed back to the house and retrieved her painting supplies. Now that Kyle was back, she could implement the next step in her campaign to win his confidence.

Forty-five minutes later, when Kyle emerged from the shed, she waved at him from her easel in the middle of the meadow. “Would you like to see what I'm working on?” she called.

When a swift survey of the field and woods confirmed that they were alone, Kyle edged closer.

“I wanted to paint the meadow with all these yellow and orange poppies,” Jill told him when he drew near. “Isn't it bright and cheerful?”

He seemed interested, but he kept his distance.

“I thought you might like to paint a picture,” Jill continued. “I set up an easel over there for you, and put out some brushes and paints. Would you like to give it a try?”

His gaze flickered to the small easel about twenty feet away from Jill's, and his eyes lit up. She held her breath while he considered the invitation, letting it out slowly when he moved toward the blank canvas. Success! He'd taken the bait.

Although she made a pretense of working on her own painting, Jill's focus was on her young visitor. She watched as he picked up a brush, examined it and studied the paint she'd squeezed out on a palette for him. His first few dabs at the canvas were tentative, but after a few minutes he became absorbed in the task, the furrows on his brow evidence of his absolute concentration. It was almost as if he'd forgotten Jill's presence.

And that was good. It gave her a chance to scrutinize the little boy without having to be concerned about spooking him. His ragtag clothes and dirty face confirmed once again that there was a lack of TLC in his life. But what caught—and held—her attention was the way he leaned very, very close to the canvas as he painted, as if he was having trouble seeing at a distance of more than a few inches.

That, too, spoke of neglect, Jill reasoned. If he had vision problems, why wasn't someone taking care of them? And since they weren't, would the authorities consider that reason enough to check out his situation? But even if they did, she could offer them little information. All she had was the boy's first name; she had no idea where he lived.

But she could find out, Jill realized. All she had to do was follow Kyle home today. She'd have to take care that he didn't see her, but considering the shadows in the forest and the carpet of pine needles that would deaden her steps—not to mention his apparent vision problems—she was sure she could remain undetected. Once she had a location, she could direct the authorities to his home. Assuming, of course, that she could convince them he needed help. She prayed that his worn clothing, grimy appearance and unaddressed vision problems would be enough to justify a visit.

The painting project occupied Kyle for well over an hour. But when Jill mentioned lunch, he shot her a startled look and cast a furtive glance toward the woods, as if the older man had told him to be back by a certain time. With reluctance, he laid his brush down and looked at her.

“You can eat here if you like, Kyle. But if you need to go, I'll put your painting away and you can finish it tomorrow.”

Once more, he acknowledged her comment with a brief
nod. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets, lowered his head and trudged toward the woods.

Jill waited until he'd entered the forest before she went into action. Laying aside her own brush, she rose and walked across the meadow, toward the large boulders where she'd first seen Kyle. She forced herself to adopt a leisurely pace, just in case he was watching. When she reached the edge of the field, she turned, angling her body so that it would appear she was surveying the meadow when in fact she was surreptitiously scanning the woods.

It was clear at once that she didn't have to worry about Kyle watching her. She could see him in the distance, weaving in and out among the trees, his back to her as he maintained his slow, plodding pace. If she kept low and stayed in the shadows, this ought to be a piece of cake.

A quarter of a mile later, her back aching from her crouched position, her knees protesting from the constant up and down as she dived behind rocks and darted from tree to tree, Jill hit pay dirt. A ramshackle structure—more lean-to than house—appeared. In front of the hovel stood a rusted, older-model pickup truck, and the ground around the place was littered with garbage and decaying machinery. When Kyle reached the door, he hesitated. Then, his shoulders drooping, he went inside.

After waiting a good fifteen minutes, Jill saw no further evidence of life. Nor any indication that harm had befallen her young friend for a tardy return It was time to go.

On her trek back through the woods, Jill considered her next move. It was clear to her that Kyle was in desperate need of nurturing. The challenge would be to convince the authorities of that. But to do so, she'd have to lodge an official
concern—which would require her to reconnect with the world, at least for a while.

Oddly enough, while that possibility would once have made her feel sick, it now caused no more than a flutter in her stomach. In part, because her concern for Kyle was stronger than her dislike of the curious, pitying stares of strangers. As to whether she could convince the authorities to investigate Kyle's situation…that was a bigger challenge. When she got back to the house, she'd jot down a few notes, put some thoughts together. In the morning, she'd run it by Keith. She wanted a second opinion, and she'd come to respect his sound thinking. Besides, two heads were always better than one. She'd have just one chance to present her argument, and she didn't want to blow it. Not when a little boy's future hung in the balance.

And in the meantime, she prayed that the Lord would keep Kyle safe.

 

“Jill? Sorry to disturb you so early, but I think there's something wrong with Kyle.”

Cradling a mug of coffee in her hands, Jill stared bleary-eyed out the screen door at Keith, noting the faint creases in his brow. Although she'd gone to bed at her normal hour, she'd still been awake when the crunch of gravel announced his return late in the evening. She'd also been awake two hours later, when the moon had appeared in her bedroom window. And at six in the morning, she'd watched the dawn paint the sky a faint pink. In all, she doubted whether she'd clocked more than three hours of intermittent sleep. Her concern for Kyle had been too deep and disturbing to permit a restful night. When sleep had finally come at dawn, she'd given in
to it, staying in bed an extra hour. Even so, she felt sluggish—and in desperate need of coffee to chase away the cobwebs from her brain.

But Keith's announcement had the same effect as a high-octane jolt of caffeine. Her heart began to bang against her rib cage, and when she spoke a tremor ran through her voice. “What do you mean?”

“He's in the toolshed. I noticed him as I walked by. He's sitting on the floor, and I think he's crying. My first instinct was to go in, but I was afraid he'd run off if I got too close.”

Her alarm escalating, Jill set her mug on the counter and crossed the room. “I'll take a look.”

“I won't be far if you need me.” Keith opened the door for her as she approached.

She acknowledged his comment with a quick dip of her head, then almost ran to the shed, slowing her pace only when she was steps away.

Once she reached the doorway, a quick survey confirmed Keith's assessment. Kyle was sitting on the floor, hunched over Homer's box, which rested in his lap. His shoulders were heaving as silent tears coursed down his cheeks.

“Kyle?”

At the sound of her gentle voice, he looked up at her with stricken eyes. Slowly, his arms trembling, he held out the box. Homer lay still and quiet in one corner.

With an aching heart, Jill moved beside him and dropped to her knees. She wanted to comfort him, to give him reasons for what had happened. But what could she say? Sometimes there was no explanation for the death of cherished living things—be they birds or people.

Knowing words wouldn't ease his sadness or sense of loss,
she did the next best thing. She gathered him in her arms and just held him.

At first, Kyle stiffened, as if unaccustomed to such displays of affection. But in increments his posture changed from resistance to a desperate hunger for consolation, and he clung to her, weeping against her shoulder with deep, wrenching sobs. Shocked at the sounds coming from a child who had always been mute, she stroked his back and murmured soothing words of comfort.

When at last his crying subsided, Jill drew back to study the tear-streaked face he turned up to her. As he looked at her, the grief in his eyes suddenly became tempered by another emotion. Surprise, perhaps. Or curiosity. His attention was riveted on the right side of her face, as if he'd never noticed her scars. And perhaps he hadn't, she realized with a jolt. If his vision was as poor as she suspected, he may never have discerned them from the distance he'd always kept. But at this proximity, he couldn't miss them.

All at once a memory came rushing back to Jill, of the first time she'd ventured out in public after her final skin graft. Deb had invited her to lunch to celebrate and wouldn't take no for an answer. Although Jill hadn't been keen on the idea, it had seemed important to Deb. And after all her sister had done for her, she hadn't wanted to refuse.

Things had gone okay at first. Of course, her appearance had attracted a lot of attention. Discreet glances, whispered comments as she passed, skittering gazes if she turned and happened to find another diner watching her. Even the waitress had refused to establish eye contact with her. She hadn't been surprised. That had been the typical reaction ever since the accident. Nevertheless, she'd resolved to put her dis
comfort and self-consciousness aside for that one day and enjoy the lunch with Deb.

And she had. Until a mother, engaged in conversation with another woman, had walked by with her young daughter in tow. The child couldn't have been more than four or five, a beautiful little girl with golden-blond hair and an angelic countenance. Much like Emily, Jill had thought with a pang that had produced an almost physical pain. The girl had smiled at Deb, but the smile had been replaced by a look of horror when she'd transferred her attention to Jill. She'd started to cry, emitting a panicked wail of fear as she grabbed her mother's leg and hid behind her.

The scene that had ensued, played out before a packed house of diners, was forever etched on Jill's mind. The mother had reached for her daughter in confusion, then turned to Jill and Deb, seeking the cause of her child's terror. When she looked at Jill, her initial revulsion had quickly morphed into recrimination. As if Jill had frightened her daughter on purpose. As if she'd
chosen
to look like something from a freak show.

The little girl had been inconsolable, and the two women had exited the restaurant—leaving an awkward, unnatural hush in their wake. It took almost a full minute before the clink of silver indicated that people had once again resumed their meals. Too numb to react, Jill had been unable to eat a bite of the lunch she'd ordered, despite Deb's best efforts to cheer her up.

Now, as Kyle stared at her, she tensed, preparing herself for a similar reaction. But instead, he did something that shocked her. With a tentative, gentle hand he reached up and touched her scars.

Jill's instinctive reaction was to jerk back and turn aside from his scrutiny. But she forced herself to remain motionless. For some reason, Kyle wasn't repelled by her appearance. Nor was he afraid. His expression couldn't quite be described as curious, either. Yet her appearance seemed to…intrigue him. But why?

Seconds later, she had her answer when he pulled back his sleeve to reveal a series of similar scars on his arm. Except his were round and symmetrical. Like hers, they'd faded a bit, but she could tell they were of more recent vintage. And there was no question that they were from burns.

Only once before had Jill seen scars like that—on an abused child in one of her art classes. Kyle's burns weren't from an accident. They'd been inflicted in a purposeful way by a smoldering cigarette, designed to punish and hurt and control.

As rage surged inside her, it took every ounce of her self-control to maintain a surface calm when she spoke. “Who did that to you, Kyle?”

Instead of responding, he pushed his sleeve back down and bowed his head.

Lord, help me get through to him!
Jill prayed.
After hearing him cry, I'm sure he has the ability, if not the inclination, to speak. Help him to trust me, to tell me about his situation so that I can help him.