Firefly Nights

“I know you can, most of the time. Just keep this woman Virgil found on her toes. I know how you like things around your place—neat and orderly. Don’t let her slack off and take advantage of you.”

Campbell smiled to himself. He’d grown up under the strict but fair supervision of Travis Oakes. Now they both believed in the same motto. No slackers allowed. “Would I do that?”

“No, you wouldn’t. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you again in a couple of days. You know where you can reach me.”

“I do, Dad.” The last thing on Campbell’s agenda was whining to his father. Besides, Fort Irwin, California, was a long way from the Saddle Top Motel. Campbell was on his own. And as bad as his situation was, he thought of Wanda and knew things could be worse.

He set the phone back on its cradle and reached across the sofa for his book. He’d just found his place and resumed reading when he heard a tap at his door.

“Hey, you in there?”

He laid the book on the coffee table and stared at fingers wrapped around the partially open door. “I am,” he said. “Where else would I be?”

The door swung open the rest of the way and banged against the wall, leaving a permanent mark on the new paint job. Adam Watley, his shorts reaching below his knees, sauntered inside. “Oh yeah, I guess you’re stuck here even more than we are. At least we can walk away.”

Campbell acknowledged the obvious conclusion with a frown.

“My mom sent me over to see if you have any soap larger than a bottle cap and maybe made in this century.” To illustrate, he unwrapped a pint-size bar of motel soap, held the paper by a corner and let the crumbling contents of Cashmere Bouquet fall to the floor.

Campbell stared at the polished honey maple planks he’d recently refinished and imagined the kid pulverizing soap shavings into a gummy mess with his bulky sneakers. “In the bathroom,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to the door to his right. “Under the sink. And clean up the mess you just made before you walk in it.”

Satisfied for the moment when Adam sidestepped the soap, Campbell picked up his book and tried to reacquaint himself with the hero’s dilemma. Trapped in a dank basement, his wrists handcuffed to a steam pipe and the bad guys just upstairs, the fictional cop’s problems were worse than his own, but only barely.

The kid returned with a regular-sized bar of Dial and stood directly in front of the couch. Without waiting to be acknowledged, he blurted out, “Are you a neat freak?”

Campbell dropped the book to his lap. “What?”

“That cabinet in the bathroom. All the bottles are in a line, shortest to tallest. The towels are in rolls, for Pete’s sake. It’s like you’re expecting the queen of England to stop by.”

Campbell reminded himself to give the kid the benefit of the doubt for now. Maybe nobody had ever taught him basic manners. “No. I’m not expecting anyone in here for any reason. Got the message?”

Adam snorted through his nose. “Yeah, but it won’t work. Mom’s coming over to fix your lunch.” He bounced the bar of Dial in his palm. “She just wanted to wash her hands first. Our room is disgusting.”

“I’ll tell housekeeping.”

“Huh? We’ve actually got a maid?”

Campbell rolled his eyes.

“Oh. Funny.” When Campbell started reading again, Adam turned toward the door, but stopped when he spied the fifty-two-inch TV in the middle of an oak entertainment center. A baseball game was on the screen, the volume turned low. Adam squawked. Campbell looked up to see the kid’s jaw drop. He backed up a couple of steps and plopped onto the sofa. “You’ve got cable!”

“No, I don’t,” Campbell said, wincing at the pain the kid’s uninvited and inconsiderate movement had caused in his chest. “There’s no cable out here. I’ve got a satellite dish.”

“Even better!” His eyes lit up when he spotted the remote control on the table. “I want to be connected in our room!”

Campbell scowled at him. “They don’t let juvenile offenders have luxuries like three hundred TV channels.”

“Heck, if I was in prison I’d have a better TV in my cell than that crappy ol’—”

“Adam!” Kitty Watley burst into the room like an avenging angel and swooped over her son. “I just told you not ten minutes ago to stop complaining.”

He shrugged. “I forgot.”

“Apologize to Mr. Oakes.”

“For what?”

“For expressing your opinions in such a vulgar way.”

Campbell raised his eyebrows. “Actually I’ve been known to use worse language than that.” Like when I’m in a plane heading nose-down with fuel spraying in all directions.

A full thirty seconds passed before Adam responded to a nudge by his mother and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“While you’re being so humble,” Campbell said, “get the dustpan and a whisk broom out of the closet and sweep up those soap crumbs. Maybe the next time you want to make a point you won’t use visual effects.”

Adam shuffled to the closet, and his mother took his place on the sofa. At least when she sat, she didn’t send shock waves into Campbell’s cracked ribs. But she did wiggle, and for some reason, that bothered Campbell more than the kid’s unceremonious plopping. She placed her hand flat against her bare chest above the top of a tank-type shirt. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Oakes. Adam is high-spirited. He doesn’t mean any harm, but...”

“Do you always apologize for your son?” Campbell said. “If so, it must take up a lot of your time.”

“Well, there are days. Unfortunately Adam has had some bad influences on his life.”

Typical cop-out for lack of discipline. “So you’re using the wrong-crowd theory as a defense for the boy’s behavior?”

Kitty’s clear, disturbingly blue eyes locked on to his. “It’s more the wrong role model. But Adam won’t cause you any trouble, I promise.” She stood up and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll get your lunch now.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not hungry after all.”

She stopped, turned and placed her hands on the waistband of her low-slung pants. “You’ve got to eat. Otherwise you won’t get your strength back.”

He turned a page in his book. “That, Miss Kitty, is up to a power much greater than the meager benefits of a bologna sandwich.”

Confusion veiled her eyes for an instant. But then her foot started tapping in its ridiculously impractical sandal. “I told your uncle I would take care of you, and I intend to keep my word.”

“Yeah, you’ve got to keep the hoodlum out of jail...”

Her eyes narrowed. She took in a sharp breath that seemed to raise her up a couple of inches. “However...” She drew the word out for several seconds. “I can only put food in front of you. I can’t give you the good sense to eat it.” She lifted her chin in a defiant gesture. “I guess either you were born with that or you weren’t.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to look away. She didn’t, so he hitched one shoulder in what he knew was childish insolence. “Suit yourself.”

As he watched her walk to the refrigerator, he pondered the information she’d given him. What role model had the kid had in his life? Was Kitty talking about the boy’s father? Was she married? If so, where was the man who should be taking care of this desperate pair? Was he going to show up at the Saddle Top Motel someday?

That was all he’d need. Campbell felt the first manifestation of unease coil like a spring in his gut. He didn’t want to be in the middle of a domestic dispute, forced to defend this duo, not in the condition he was in. Then he remembered Virgil had referred to Kitty as “Miss Watley.” That eliminated the husband possibility, if Virgil was right. But it didn’t eliminate an ex-boyfriend one.

After she took a can from the cupboard and a package of lunch meat from the refrigerator, Kitty looked over her shoulder at him. It was the first time he realized he was still staring at her and that he probably shouldn’t be.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Oakes?” she asked.

Truly he was gawking at her as if he’d been trapped in a mine shaft for a week and she was the sun. “Nothing’s wrong,” he barked at her. She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for a logical explanation. He certainly couldn’t tell her that he’d been memorizing every curve under that shirt, so he improvised. “It’s those clothes you’re wearing. They’re, uh, interesting to say the least.”