Sweet Sanctuary (20 page)

Micah's heart turned over. He started to apologize for not coming sooner, but she clattered upstairs before Micah could form the response.

23

H
is name is Nicolai Pankin. His hair is dark blond—he wears it long, down to his collar—and his eyes are green. He is over six feet tall, with muscular shoulders but otherwise is fairly thin. He only has one arm—his left arm is severed just below the shoulder.”

Micah stood in silence while the police chief on the other side of the cluttered desk recorded Lydia's description. Straightforward, professional, and articulate, she showed amazing strength, and Micah's admiration for her grew.

Lydia continued, “He drove away in a Ford pickup truck—an older model, rather battered—dark green in color. And he'll have a small boy with him.” She swallowed, her throat visibly bobbing and her composure momentarily faltering. “At least, I hope he will.” She sent a pleading look in Micah's direction.

He rested his elbow on the corner of the desk and gave the policeman Nicky's description. He watched his statements appear in pencil lead on a sheet of yellow paper:
Dark curly hair, brown eyes, age four years, approximately 38 inches tall and 34 pounds.
In his memory, Nicky's sweet voice echoed—
“I'm small for my age”
—and Micah sniffed back tears. How could a few
brief lines of scribbled text possibly encapsulate the wonder of this child? He gulped and added, “He's a wonderful boy. Very bright and imaginative. And when he laughs . . .” A smile grew on Micah's face without effort. “Your heart ignites.”

Lydia squeezed his hand, the shimmer in her eyes offering a silent thank-you.

Unruffled by her show of emotion, the officer asked Lydia, “And this Pankin—you say he's an addict?”

“That's right. Morphine. Which is why his wife didn't want him to have their baby. She was afraid he would harm the child.”

“But he has the child now?”

“Yes, sir. He took Nicky from my care a week ago. I haven't seen either of them since.”

The officer jotted another few lines, then raised his gaze to Lydia once again. “Do you have any idea where Pankin lives or works?”

Lydia pursed her lips. “He doesn't have a job, to my knowledge. As for where he lives—no idea at all. I just know he's in Boston somewhere.”

“And you're sure he's still addicted to morphine?”

Lydia whisked a troubled glance at Micah before answering. “The day he took Nicky, he asked my father for a job. My father reminded him why he'd been fired from the plant four years ago—because of his habit—and asked if the situation had changed. Nic said no, and it never would.”

Her grim statement chilled Micah. This man had Nicky.

“Well, thank you for coming in. I understand your concern. I'll alert the men to be watching for a man meeting this description.” The officer leaned forward, his brow crunching into a scowl. “You understand . . . we can't arrest him unless he's caught performing an illegal activity. All we can do is keep an eye out.”

Lydia raised her chin. “A four-year-old boy's life could very well be in danger right now because of this man's habit. I trust you will alert the men to that fact, as well.”

The police chief nodded. “I will. Good luck in your custody battle, miss. Appears to me there's just cause for removing the boy from his father's care.” He pushed out of his chair and strode away with the notes in hand, presumably to share them with the other officers.

Micah turned away from the desk. Lydia stood from her creaky wooden chair and looked up at him. “Now the lawyer?”

Micah waved his hand toward the double doors leading to the sidewalk. “Let's go.”

As they left the police department, Lydia commented, “The law office my father uses is only a few blocks from here. We could save gasoline if we walked.”

Considering the limited number of gas rations Micah had tossed into his suitcase as a last-minute thought while packing, her suggestion made sense. And a brisk walk might dispel some of their nervous energy. Micah shifted the envelope containing Mrs. Fenwick's letter and journal to his right hand and offered her his left. “That sounds fine.”

Lydia slipped her hand through the bend of his elbow. They turned east and set off with a determined pace. Now that a plan was in place, Lydia seemed eager to see it through. For the first two blocks they walked in silence, eyes straight ahead. But as they waited to cross to the third block, Lydia swung her gaze to his. “Micah, how were you able to close the clinic?”

Micah looked right and left and then guided her across the street. “I asked a doctor friend to assign an intern for a few days.” He grimaced. “Took longer than I'd hoped to find someone willing to fill in, which delayed my coming here, but I'd never leave it closed. Too many people rely on it.”

Lydia hop-stepped onto the curb, sending a soft smile in his direction. “You love that clinic.”

She'd made a statement rather than asked a question, but Micah affirmed it anyway. “I do. But more than that, it's where I'm meant to be. God put me there. I'll stay until He plants me somewhere else.”

Lydia puckered her lips, her brow pinched in thought, as they wove between other pedestrians on the sidewalk. Finally she sighed. “I wish I knew where God wanted me planted. I feel . . . rootless. Especially now with Nicky gone. I feel as though my purpose for living has been ripped out and tossed aside.”

Micah drew her to a stop. “Lydia, I know you're hurting. I know you miss Nicky. But I want you to remember something. Jeremiah—the book in the Bible, not my brother—says that God's thoughts are in place for every life, and His thoughts are for peace, not evil. That applies to Nicky, too. Somehow God will use this situation for good one day. We just have to trust.”

“I want to trust. I've felt so much closer to God since I was in New York and I heard His voice. I know He's there. I just miss my son.” Tears quivered on her lashes, but she roughly brushed them away with her fingertips and began moving forward again, her steps purposeful. “Eleanor wanted Nicky with me. I believe that's best for Nicky, too. We'll find him. We have to find him.” She stopped in front of an ostentatiously carved building.

Micah looked up and spoke the name carved into the limestone cap on the building. “Claiborne and Mitchell.”

Lydia nodded briskly. “This is the place. Let's go.” Steely resolve colored her tone.

Micah opened the door and Lydia marched directly to the long, carved desk in the center of a massive reception area. He followed, resisting the urge to release an awe-filled whistle. Obviously these two lawyers did very well. A hallway divided
the back half of the building, and ornately carved, paneled doors sprung off in both directions. Micah envisioned the rooms behind those doors—probably all wood-paneled and bedecked with thick Persian rugs, original oil paintings, and brass light fixtures just like the lobby. Suddenly he felt self-conscious in his tan dungarees, button-up shirt with the collar open, and scuffed Oxfords.

Lydia, however, was not cowed in the least. She moved directly to the receptionist, who sat like a king on his throne behind the glossy desk. “I need to speak to Mr. Claiborne immediately. It is a matter of great importance.”

The thick glasses enlarged the receptionist's eyes, giving him the appearance of an owl. “Do you have an appointment, miss?”

“No, I do not. However, I'm certain Mr. Claiborne will be willing to see me.”

“Mr. Claiborne rarely sees anyone without an appointment.” The man set his lips in a firm line.

Lydia squared her shoulders. “I don't recall it being necessary for my father to make an appointment in the past.”

“And your father would be—?”

“Nicholas Allan Eldredge.”

The receptionist's ears turned red. “Please stay here, Miss Eldredge. I'll see if Mr. Claiborne is available.” He disappeared down the hallway.

Lydia turned to face Micah, a wry grin on her face. “He'll be available. Father's money opens doors.”

“Do you want me to come back with you?”

“It isn't necessary, Micah, but thank you.” She took the envelope from him and lightly slapped her thigh with it.

The receptionist returned quickly, a tense smile on his narrow face. “Right this way, Miss Eldredge. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Lydia clicked across the marble floor behind the receptionist, and a booming voice carried from the first room on the left. “Why, little Lydia, how good to see you!” The receptionist closed the door, sealing off the lawyer's voice.

Micah crossed to a grouping of leather chairs and seated himself, the leather squeaking as his weight pressed against it. He picked up the most recent
Life
magazine and thumbed through it while he waited for Lydia, silently praying that things would go well. Barely fifteen minutes passed before Lydia emerged. Her cheeks sported bright splashes of pink, and her eyes shone with determination.

Micah rose and met her halfway across the floor. “What did you find out?”

Lydia pointed toward the doors, and they headed outside. “Just as Father was told earlier, it will be hard to declare Nic as unfit, but it can be done with some effort. We're going to need to find people willing to testify that they have seen Nic use morphine—and it needs to be recent use. We also need a record of his employment and why he left each job. Father fired him when he came to work under the influence, so it's possible other employers have released him for the same reason. That will need to be verified. His home will require a thorough examination to determine if it is safe for a child, and it will also help to have a record of his places of residence—see if there's a pattern of moving because of his addiction. Mrs. Fenwick's accurate accounting of Eleanor's last wishes is a benefit but by itself isn't enough for me to win custody. We've got a lot of work ahead of us.”

He liked the way she said “we,” including him in the effort. He also liked her enthusiastic attitude. She glanced up and must have caught his smile because she paused. “What's amusing?”

“I'm not amused, Lydia. I'm pleased by the change. You
scared me when you opened the door and fell apart. You didn't seem to have any life left in you. Yet here you are, armed for battle and charging out, determined to win.”

Lydia smiled sheepishly. “I was feeling sorry for myself—and overwhelmed. Honestly, Micah, all Mother has done is cry since Nicky left, and Father . . .” She shook her head, sighing. “Well, Father shows no emotion at all. I've been caught between them. But not anymore! My little boy is out there somewhere, and with God's help, I'm going to find him and bring him home.”

“Good girl.” Micah's chest swelled with pride, and he impulsively wrapped her in a quick hug. “That's the Lydia I know and love.”

The moment the last word escaped, both of them froze. The air seemed to sizzle between them. The bustling city—the blaring automobile horns, the odor of exhaust, the towering buildings—slipped away, and Micah and Lydia were all that existed in a patch of sunlight, breath held tight, eyes wide and seeking, blood pumping, incredibly aware of what Micah had just admitted.

A car horn honked as tires squealed, and Micah jolted. His breath whooshed from his lungs. Lydia shifted her gaze away, her shoulders wilting. Micah's heart rate slowed, his breathing regulated, the city rushed back, and reality surrounded them once more. He opened his mouth to tell her—what? That he didn't mean what he'd said? He couldn't honestly deny it. He did love her. But to have allowed it to slip out in that way, at this time, was all wrong. How could he take it back without hurting her?

Before he could form any kind of speech at all, her dark eyes suddenly widened and she pointed frantically to something behind him, spluttering, “Look! Look!”

Micah spun and looked, but he saw nothing more than a
ramshackle pickup truck turning off Market Street. Then his heart lurched. He reached for Lydia, who caught his arm and tugged at it.

“That's Nic's truck! I'll get my car and we'll follow him! Watch the truck!”

And off she ran, leaving Micah straining to keep the pickup in his sights.

24

L
ydia squealed the car to a stop next to the curb where Micah stood waiting. As he climbed into the car, she asked, “Which way did he go?”

Micah pointed. “The pickup turned south—I think about three blocks off of Market. Let's try to catch him. I think your Hudson will be more reliable than that thing he's driving.”

Lydia lunged into traffic. Two cars swerved and honked at her, but Lydia merely gritted her teeth. She drove as recklessly as she dared, following Nic's trail. Finally, they caught a glimpse of Nic's pickup a few cars ahead.

“Yes! There it is! We've got him in sight now.” Micah touched Lydia's shoulder. “Settle down and drive safely.”

She risked a quick grin in his direction. “Am I scaring you?”

“No, but your driving is.”

Lydia laughed, amazed at how good it felt. Her heart still raced—she might soon be reunited with Nicky!—but she slowed enough to avoid riding the bumper of the car ahead of her.

She sat as high in the seat as possible, trying to peer around traffic to get a clear view of Nic's back window. “Does Nic have Nicky with him? Can you tell?”

Micah grabbed the dashboard, squinting ahead. “I think he's by himself.”

“That means he's left Nicky somewhere.” Now her heart pounded in fear. “Oh, Micah, you don't think he's sold Nicky, do you?”

Micah snorted. “If he'd recently come into money, I don't think he'd be driving that old heap.”

Lydia prayed he was right. They followed Nic's pickup as it left the downtown area, passed through several middle-class neighborhoods, and finally wove its way into an area Lydia had never visited before. She grasped the steering wheel tightly as her nervous gaze scanned the area. “This looks like a rough place to live.” Her voice trembled with nervousness. “And he left Nicky here somewhere, alone.”

“Not alone,” Micah said, his tone firm. “Nicky is never alone.”

“That's exactly what I told Nicky the day Nic took him away. And I know Jesus is with him, but—” She yelped as a taxicab careened from a side street, narrowly missing her. She slammed her brakes and downshifted. The Hudson jumped a curb before shuddering and then heaving into silence. Two blocks ahead, Nic's truck rumbled around a corner and disappeared.

“No! No!” Lydia pounded on the steering wheel, then viciously twisted the key, willing the car to life. A whine vibrated from beneath the hood, but the engine refused to engage.

Micah hopped out. “Release the hood's latch.”

Lydia gave the silver latch a firm yank, and Micah lifted the hood. He leaned in, then knelt on the glass-strewn pavement and peeked beneath the car. After a few seconds, he stood, brushed his hands together, and sent a dismayed look in her direction.

Gooseflesh broke out across Lydia arms. She slid out and joined Micah. “What is it?”

“When you went over the curb, something pierced the oil pan.” He pointed to a thin flow forming a shiny black puddle under the car. “You flattened a tire, and I think the wheel might be bent. This car won't be going anywhere anytime soon.”

Panic clawed at her heart. “What do we do?”

“We'll have to see if someone who lives around here will let us use their telephone to call for help—either your father or a towing company.”

Lydia gaped at him. “But what about Nic? He's getting away!”

Sympathy creased Micah's brow. He cupped her shoulders. “Lydia, you can't chase after him on foot. Look around.”

She did, taking in the dilapidated houses with broken windows and rotting porch floors. People peered from behind shredded curtains, their faces somehow menacing. She shivered despite the sun's heat.

Micah nodded grimly. “We can't leave the vehicle here unattended, and we shouldn't go traipsing around. I don't think it's safe.”

A lump filled Lydia's throat. She swallowed, but the knot remained there, a ball of frustration and worry. “But Nicky might be here somewhere, Micah. How can I think of my car before him?”

Micah massaged her shoulders briefly before lowering his hands. “As difficult as it is, you've got to see to your car first. Without it, we can't seek Nicky.” Slipping his arm around her waist, he guided her to the gaping driver's door. “Get in there, roll up the windows, and set the locks. I'm going to”—he flicked an uncertain glance at the closest house—“see if anyone has a telephone I can use. If not, I'll walk until I find a telephone booth. But no matter how long I'm gone, stay inside the car. Don't open your door for anyone but a policeman or me. Do you understand?”

Lydia recognized the deep concern in his voice. As much as she ached to run down the street in search of Nicky, she understood the importance of safety. “All right.” She climbed behind the wheel and pulled the door closed behind her. Reaching through the open window, she caught Micah's sleeve. “Please hurry.”

He leaned down and offered a reassuring smile. “I will. And don't worry. We asked God to lead us to Nicky, and He brought us this far. He won't fail us now. Sit tight—I'll be back as quickly as possible. While I'm gone, pray.”

He waited while she rolled up the windows and pushed the lock buttons. Then, with another smile and wink—the sweet gesture bringing the sting of tears to Lydia's eyes—he strode up the block.

Nic parked behind a car with two missing wheels and the back window broken out. When would the landlord make the owners haul the thing away? Cats had taken up residence in it and they yowled all night, disrupting his sleep. Besides, with that hunk of junk filling space, he couldn't even get close to his own apartment building. He'd lodge another complaint if it wouldn't require a face-to-face with the building's owner. Since he was behind on his rent, he needed to keep his distance.

He skirted patches of broken glass as he strode across the weed-infested yard where a squealing passel of dirty-faced kids kicked an empty coffee tin back and forth in place of a ball. A rolled-top paper bag clutched in his hand, he stepped off the yard onto the chipped concrete slab fronting his building. The door had long been stripped of its doorknob and it hung on loose hinges. He hooked the bottom edge with his boot toe, sending the warped door bouncing against the brick wall,
and entered the hallway. No sunlight reached inside, and deep shadows shrouded the filthy space. Nic poked the button for the overhead light. The bulb on a length of twisted wires brightened, fizzled, then popped. Darkness fell around him. He snorted. Burned out. Again.

He stood for a few moments, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and then he aimed himself for the narrow stairway leading to the upper floors. Two kids plowed out of an apartment door on his left and dashed past him while their mother hollered after them to get themselves right back inside. The pair didn't even pause—just laughed like a couple of hyenas and kept going. Nic shook his head in disgust and moved onward. Fool kids anyway.

He'd wanted a first-floor apartment when he'd moved in. Tough hauling belongings up flights of stairs with only one hand. And on his weak days—the ones when he couldn't get ahold of any magic dust—he had trouble just getting himself up the stairs. But people with kids lived in most of the first-floor apartments. And he'd always wanted to avoid kids.

Until now.

He paused midway up the staircase, his knuckles resting on the banister and one foot on a higher riser than the other. His gaze lifted, and he envisioned his one-room apartment where Eleanor's son—
his
son—probably cowered in a corner. The kid had spent every day so far hunkered in the corner, as far from Nic as he could get and still be in the same room. Nic berated himself. Why hadn't he delivered the boy to the Bachmans yet? His August fourth deadline had long passed. And he needed money. Needed it bad. The hubcaps and leather coat he'd taken from a fancy car uptown hadn't fetched nearly enough at the pawn shop. So he oughta take the boy to Weston and get his promised five thousand dollars.

But he remained rooted on the stairway like a garden statue, his face aimed toward the second floor and his stomach pinching. If only the kid didn't look so much like Eleanor. If he had his father's coloring instead, Nic would be able to dump him in a heartbeat. He'd never cared for his own appearance. Too much like his old man's face looking back from the mirror. He'd had no trouble walking away from his parents, but walking away from Nicky . . . He couldn't do it. Not when the kid looked at him with Eleanor's eyes.

Need scratched his flesh, giving him the sense of bugs crawling beneath his skin. Nic sighed and forced himself to continue upward. He'd get to his apartment, take his medicine—or his candy, as he now called it for Nicky's sake—and maybe, just maybe, if there were any luck in the world at all for Nicolai Pankin, the morphine would dull his pain and give him enough courage to make that trip to Weston after all.

Nic plodded up the remaining stairs, rounded the curve at the landing, and scuffed the short distance to his apartment. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, stumbling over the threshold. He waved the paper sack. “Hey, kid. Gotcha some bananas.” He scanned the room, looking in each corner first. No crouching boy with a teddy bear locked in his arms. Kid must've found a new hiding place.

He roamed the small space, peeking behind furniture and in cubbies. “Remember yesterday, you said you wanted one? Well, c'mon and get it.” Nic kicked at a heap of discarded clothing, but the boy hadn't burrowed beneath it. He frowned, turning a slow circle while apprehension prickled his scalp. “Nicky?”

Nic plopped the sack on the little table in the kitchen area of the apartment and then darted out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom. The door was closed. The lock never held, so closed was supposed to mean occupied—knock first.
Nic didn't bother to knock. He threw the door open, bellowing, “Nicky, you in here?”

“Ain't nobody here but me!” a crotchety voice rasped from behind a stall wall—old Mr. Tinker from Apartment 4B.

“You seen a little boy—dark hair, 'bout waist high?” Nic's heart thumped as he waited for a reply.

“Seen a little dark-haired feller scuttlin' down the stairs near an hour ago. Had a teddy bear under his arm.” The old man's voice took on a sharp edge. “Now get outta here an' let a man have some privacy, why don'tcha?!”

Nic backed out, leaving the door wide open. Tinker hollered in indignation, but Nic ignored him. That boy could be anywhere by now, and he'd better find him. Five thousand dollars—and his own peace of mind—rested on it.

Nic searched until dusk, exploring the gaps between close-set houses, behind trash bins and abandoned appliances, and under parked cars. He stopped every person he encountered and asked if they'd seen a little kid carting a teddy bear. Most just shrugged, but twice someone pointed him in the direction Nicky had gone. But even with their hints, Nic came up empty. With night approaching and his ability to see hindered—as well as his need to consume his magic powder making every muscle in his body twitch—he reluctantly aimed himself for the apartment building once more.