This Good Man

The thought was followed by a soundless grunt. The boy’s instincts had been honed in the same hard school his own had been. Of course his wariness had been sharpened to a razor edge.

It was the same instinct that had Reid choosing a hard plastic seat with its back to a wall. The seats were situated at the corner of an L where, by barely turning his head, he could watch both the little-used mall entrance in one direction and, in the other direction, a wing that eventually dead-ended at a Macy’s. The small stores closest to him didn’t depend much on browsers, which meant that, down at this end, traffic was light and teenagers few and far between. Pearle Vision, Regis Salon, Sleep Country USA, a vitamin and food supplements store—all destination businesses. Reid could almost relax. He settled down to wait.

He watched idly as a mother ushered two kids into Pearle Vision. A middle-aged man and wife entered Sleep Country. None of them so much as glanced Reid’s way.

Reid saw the boy outside well before he reached the mall’s glass doors. For all his obvious youth, he moved like a cop—long, athletic stride, acute awareness of his surroundings. His head kept turning. He looked casual but didn’t miss anything. Before entering, he assessed the two women with a baby stroller opening one of the other doors, and dismissed them as a threat.

Once inside, his gaze locked almost immediately on Reid. The momentary hesitation in his step wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone not watching as closely as Reid was.

Reid saw something else, too: a limp that was almost, but not quite, disguised.

The boy walked like a wounded cop who didn’t want anyone else to spot his injury and therefore vulnerability.

A tide of rage rose in a man who, until a week ago when he discovered the existence of this kid, hadn’t felt anything like that in many years.

He slowly rose to his feet, his own gaze never wavering from the boy.

My brother, he thought with an incredulity he couldn’t seem to shake.

Until now, he hadn’t been 100 percent sure the boy was his half brother versus a stepbrother. He’d have been here either way, but—damn. He could be looking at his own fifteen-year-old self.

Lean to the point of being skinny, muscles not yet having developed. Spiky hair the same shade of nut-brown as his, with an unruliness that hinted at the waves that had always irritated him. A bony face with cheekbones cut so sharp, they gave the kid a hungry look Reid saw replicated in the mirror every morning when he shaved.

The eyes he couldn’t be sure about until the boy got close. Then he felt another jolt. This Caleb Sawyer had Reid’s eyes, too, a hazel so dark as to look brown in dim lighting, but in the sun could appear as green as thick bottle glass.

He had his father’s eyes. Reid’s father’s eyes.

Caleb came to a stop a few feet from him, his shock apparent. “You’re really him,” he blurted.

“Your brother,” Reid agreed.

“He always said you were dead. That you had to be.”

“I might have been if I hadn’t gotten away.”

That too-familiar face clouded. “Where have you been all my life?”

“I didn’t know about you.” The defense was inadequate, Reid was well aware; he should have made sure he found out if his father ever had another child. “Once I was eighteen, I checked on him. Kept checking for a few years, but he hadn’t remarried.” His shoulders moved. “He was in his mid-forties by then. I thought he was unlikely—” He stopped, then said the most inadequate words of all. “I’m sorry.”

Caleb didn’t acknowledge that by so much as a nod. Instead, his stare challenged Reid. “Why now?”

“Because I did run a search out of curiosity and came up with court proceedings. An abuse allegation.”

“Dismissed.” No kid that age should be capable of such searing bitterness.

“Yeah. The few times we made it as far as court, it was always dismissed, too.”

Dean Sawyer was a cop. He was also a violent drunk who had beaten the shit out of his first wife and son. Reid’s mother died when she slipped in a spill on the kitchen floor and hit her head on a sharp corner of the cabinet top—or so the police report said. Nobody remarked on the fact that her skin displayed a road map of old and new bruises. Without an autopsy performed, nobody but her son and grieving husband knew how many bones in her body had been broken in the years of her marriage.

Several times one of Reid’s teachers or a school counselor called Child Protective Services. The final report always concluded that Reid Sawyer was clumsy—and it had been true that, like many boys destined to be tall men, he’d tended to trip over his too-large feet—or that father and son had scuffled, but the incident was understandable because Deputy Sawyer’s son was rebellious and prone to acting out. Counseling had sometimes been recommended for Reid. Once, his father—a sergeant by then—had been court mandated to take a class in anger management. He had known whom to blame for the inconvenience and humiliation, and he had vented his fury appropriately.

“You’re hurt,” Reid said now. He had shoved his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hooded sweatshirt to keep the boy from seeing his fists.

A flick of one shoulder said, Yeah, so?

“What about your mother?” Reid asked reluctantly. The mother would be more of a problem.

“She took off. Like three years ago.”

“And didn’t take you.”

“He wasn’t bothered enough to go after her.”

“But he would have gone after you.”

“I’m his son,” Caleb said simply, with that same blistering anger. “He hates you, you know.”

Reid made a sound in his throat. Yes, he knew. No, he didn’t give a damn. Then he nodded toward the row of hard seats. “Let’s sit and talk for a minute.”

When he settled in one, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles in an appearance of relaxation, Caleb chose a seat one removed from Reid’s. His boneless slouch didn’t hide his tension.

“Why did you want to meet me?” he asked, eyes dark with turbulence. “You planning to start sending me birthday cards?”

“I came to see how bad off you are. Whether you’re ready to ditch Dad.”

The kid’s head came up. He struggled against it, but didn’t hide his hope any better than he had his misery. “You mean, like, go home with you?”

“No.” Reid’s voice came out gravelly. He hadn’t expected to feel so much. To want to say, Damn right you’re going home with me. “He could find me with no trouble, which means he’d find you.”

“If you contested—”

“The chances are good he’d win. He has so far, hasn’t he?”

The boy ducked his head. His shoulders hunched. He didn’t say anything.

“You need more than I can give you anyway,” Reid said slowly. “Hugs. Affection.” Something always softened inside him when he thought of the Hales and how much they’d given him. “Discipline, school, healing.”

“Like a foster home?”

As an officer of the law, Reid didn’t like knowing he’d be breaking the law. But, within hours of learning all he could about Caleb online, Reid had made peace with his conscience. Not often, but occasionally, the letter of the law contradicted what was just and right. He was living proof of that. The law had failed Caleb, too.

“A shelter. One that’s...different.” Reid held his brother’s eyes, determined that he listen to and understand every word. “It would mean you going off the grid. You’d have to be homeschooled, you wouldn’t be able to get your driver’s license until you’re eighteen and Dad couldn’t come after you anymore. It would mean obeying the rules and not doing something dumb that would bring the authorities down on you and the other kids in the shelter.”

His brother eyed him sidelong. “The way you say ‘authorities.’ Are you into illegal shit? Do you deal or something?”

“Drugs?” Reid gave a short laugh. “No. I’m in law enforcement.” He was very aware of the irony.

Caleb lifted his head to stare at him in disbelief. “Just like Daddy.”