A Season for Grace

Collin swallowed the cry of humiliation rising up in his stomach like the bad oranges he’d eaten from the convenience-store trash. He did the best he could to keep Drew and Ian clean and fed. It wasn’t easy without water or electricity. He’d tried washing them off in the restroom before school, but he guessed he hadn’t done too good a job.

“Collin.” The fancy-looking social worker had a hand on her stomach where Drew had punched her. “You’ve been through this before. You know it’s for the best. Why don’t you help me get your brothers in the car?”

Collin didn’t look at her. Instead he focused on his brothers, sick that he couldn’t help them. Sick with dread. Who knew what would happen this time? Somehow he had to find a way to keep them all together. That was the important thing. Together, they could survive.

Ian, only four, looked so little sitting in a big brown plastic chair against the wall. His scrawny legs stuck straight out and the oversized tennis shoes threatened to fall off. No shoestrings. They stunk, too. Collin could smell them clean over here.

Like Collin, baby Ian didn’t say a word; he didn’t fight. He just cried. Silent, broken tears streamed down his cheeks and left tracks like a bicycle through mud. Clad in a plaid flannel shirt with only two buttons and a pair of Drew’s tattered jeans pulled together at the belt loops with a piece of electrical cord, his skinny body trembled. Collin could hardly stand that.

They shouldn’t have come to school today; then none of this would have happened. But they were hungry and he was fresh out of places to look. School lunch was free, all you could eat.

Seething against an injustice he couldn’t name or defend against, he crossed the room to his brother. He didn’t say a word; just put his hand on Ian’s head. The little one, quivering like a scared puppy, relaxed the tiniest bit. He looked up, eyes saying he trusted his big brother to take care of everything the way he always did.

Collin hoped he could.

The social worker knelt in front of Ian and took his hand. “I know you’re scared, honey, but you’re going to be fine. You’ll have plenty to eat and a nice, safe place to sleep.” She tapped his tennis shoes. “And a new pair of shoes, just your size. Things will be better, I promise.”

Ian sniffed and dragged a buttonless sleeve across his nose. When he looked at her, he had hope in his eyes. Poor little kid.

Collin ignored the hype. He’d heard it all before and it was a lie. Things were never better. Different, but not better.

The tall counselor, still holding Drew in the chair, slid to his knees just like the social worker and said, “Boys, sometimes life throws us a curveball. But no matter what happens, I want you to remember one thing. Jesus cares about you. If you let him, He’ll take care of you. No matter where you go from here, God will never walk off and leave you.”

A funny thing happened then. Drew sort of quieted down and looked as if he was listening. Ian was still sniffin’ and snubbin’, but watching Mr. James, too. None of them could imagine anybody who wouldn’t leave them at some point.

“Collin?” The counselor, who Collin used to like a lot, twisted around and stretched an open palm toward him. Collin wanted to take hold. But he couldn’t.

After a minute, Mr. James dropped his hand, laid it on Collin’s shoe. Something about that big, strong hand on his old tennis shoe bothered Collin. He didn’t know if he liked it or hated it.

The room got real quiet then. Too quiet. Mr. James bowed his bald head and whispered something. A prayer, Collin thought, though he didn’t know much about such things. He stared at the wall, trying hard not to listen. He didn’t dare hope, but the counselor’s words made him want to.

Then Mr. James reached into his pocket. Drew and Ian watched him, silent. Collin watched his brothers.

“I want you to have one of these,” the counselor said as he placed something in each of the younger boys’ hands. It looked like a fish on a tiny chain. “It’s a reminder of what I said, that God will watch over you.”

Collin’s curiosity made his palm itch to reach out, but he didn’t. Instead, Mr. James had to pry his fingers apart and slide the fish-shaped piece of metal into the hollow of his hand.

Much as he wanted to, Collin refused to look at it. Better to cut to the chase and quit all this hype. “Where are we going this time?”

His stupid voice shook. He clenched his fists to still the trembling. The metal fish, warm from Mr. James’s skin, bit into his flesh.

The pretty social worker looked up, startled that he’d spoken. Collin wondered if she could see the fury, red and hot, that pushed against the back of his eyes.

“We already have foster placements for Drew and Ian.”

But not for him. The anger turned to fear. “Together?”

As long as they were together, they’d be okay.

“No. I’m sorry. Not this time.”

He knew what she meant. He knew the system probably better than she did. Only certain people would take boys like Drew who expressed their anger. And nobody would take him. He was too old. People liked little and cute like Ian, not fighters, not runaways, not big boys with an attitude.

Panic shot through him, made his heart pound wildly. “They have to stay with me. Ian gets scared.”

The social worker rose and touched his shoulder. “He’ll be fine, Collin.”

Collin shrugged away to glare at the brown paneled wall behind the counselor’s desk. Helpless fury seethed inside him.

The worst had finally happened.

He and Drew and Ian were about to be separated.

Chapter One

Twenty-three years later, Oklahoma City

Sweat burned his eyes, but Collin Grace didn’t move. He couldn’t. One wrong flinch and somebody died.

Totally focused on the life-and-death scenario playing out on the ground below, he hardly noticed the sun scalding the back of his neck or the sweat soaking through his protective vest.

The Tac-team leader’s voice came through the earphone inside his Fritz helmet. “Hostage freed. Suspect in custody. Get down here for debrief.”

Collin relaxed and lowered the .308 caliber marksman rifle, a SWAT sniper’s best friend, and rose from his prone position on top of the River Street Savings and Loan. Below him, the rest of the team exited a training house and headed toward Sergeant Gerrara.

Frequent training was essential and Collin welcomed every drill. Theirs wasn’t a full-time SWAT unit, so they had to stay sharp for those times when the callout would come and they’d have to act. Normally a patrol cop, he’d spent all morning on the firing range, requalifying with every weapon known to mankind. He was good. Real good, with the steadiest hands anyone on the force had ever seen. A fact that made him proud.

“You headed for the gym after this?” His buddy, fellow police officer and teammate, Maurice Johnson shared his propensity for exercise. Stay in shape, stay alive. Most special tactics cops agreed.

Collin peeled his helmet off and swiped a hand over his sweating brow. “Yeah. You?”

“For a few reps. I told Shanita I’d be home early. Bible study at our place tonight.” Maurice sliced a sneaky grin in Collin’s direction. Sweat dripped from his high ebony cheeks and rolled down a neck the size of a linebacker’s. “Wanna come?”

Collin returned the grin with a shake of his head. Maurice wouldn’t give up. He extended the same invitation every Thursday.

Collin liked Maurice and his family, but he couldn’t see a loner like himself spouting Bible verses and singing in a choir. It puzzled him, too, that a cop as tough and smart as Maurice would feel the need for God. To Collin’s way of thinking there was only one person he trusted enough to lean on. And that was himself.

“Phone call for you, Grace,” Sergeant Gerrara hollered. “Probably some cutie after your money.”

The other cops hooted as Collin shot Maurice an exasperated look and took off in a trot. He received plenty of teasing about his single status. Some of the guys tried to fix him up, but when a woman started pushing him or trying to get inside his head, she was history. He didn’t need the grief.

The heavy tactics gear rattled and bounced against his body as he grabbed the cell phone from Sergeant Gerrara’s over-size fist, trading it for his rifle.

“Grace.”

“Sergeant Collin Grace?” A feminine voice, light and sweet, hummed against his ear.

“Yeah.” He shoved his helmet under one arm and stepped away from the gaggle of cops who listened in unabashedly. “Who’s this?”