Life-Changing Love Page 2
A rear window of the car lowered and Peter’s pink face poked out. “Come on, come on, hurry!”
Roland let his bike fall and darted to the other side of the car. Trying to catch his breath as he got in, he gagged on the odors of burning oil and leather air freshener.
Peter greeted him with a grin and a fist bump. Foster laughed. Leo’s only acknowledgment came in the form of an outstretched, palm-up hand.
Leaning back, Roland struggled to stuff his hand into the front pocket of his black jeans.
“Kill the headlights, dude.” Peter tapped Leo’s seatback. “This is a covert operation.”
Leo waited until Roland slapped the money into his hand before choking the lights. He examined his payment, shoved it into a chest pocket, and peered in the rearview mirror. “I wanna know who we’re following.”
“Ah, whaddya need to know for? We just need money.” Foster, who sat in the front passenger seat, reached up and rubbed Leo’s blond crew cut. Leo swatted him. Foster yanked his hand back.
“There he is!” Peter scooted forward, clutching the driver’s headrest.
The Lexus sped past, its silver coat shining under the setting sun, its taillights matching the pink-streaked sky.
Roland’s heartbeat quickened. The car headed toward town. But to what destination? Maybe he didn’t want to know.
“Go, go, go.” Foster spun his hand in a circular motion. “Drive!”
Leo revved the engine, shifted into reverse, and peeled out of the driveway with a squeak of the tires.
“Not so fast.” Foster shook a hand at Leo. “We don’t want him to see us.”
“Who’s him?” Leo slowed a little. “I’m driving. I should know.”
“Turn your lights on, dude,” Peter said. “We don’t want to get pulled over.”
Roland was amazed at Peter’s courage, bossing Leo like that. Maybe he assumed Foster would take the edge off Leo’s temper. Then again, Peter never seemed to use caution.
Leo glared at Peter through the rearview mirror before obeying.
“He’s turning,” Foster shouted, whacking Leo’s arm.
“I can see he’s turning. I’m not blind.” Leo sneered.
As the car rounded the corner, Peter faced Roland and stared for a moment before speaking. “So, where do you think he’s going? What do you think he’s up to? And why are we following him?”
Roland watched the Lexus’s taillights as it turned again. He shrugged.
“Not gonna tell me, huh?” Peter’s jaw twitched. “Fine. Keep your secrets, for now. I’ll get you to talk eventually.”
“There he goes.” Foster jabbed the air.
“I can see that.” Leo slammed his palms against the steering wheel then cranked it for the turn. “Man, I’m not an idiot. I’m older than all of you.”
Peter grinned. “Older . . . but not necessarily smarter.”
Leo muttered something, his eyes oscillating between the rearview mirror and the windshield. He was nicknamed The Dumb Ox, a name a good Catholic wouldn’t even appreciate, though St. Thomas Aquinas had it first. He got the name largely due to his size. He had an incredible bulk, most of it muscle. But the name also reflected his perceived intelligence. He answered questions after a long delay, if he answered at all.
If he wasn’t the only kid they knew with a license and a car . . .
They passed the downtown square and turned onto a residential street. Roland’s attention drifted to the little yellow ranch house on the corner. Maybe Caitlyn would be outside. Maybe she’d see them.
Her green crystalline eyes flashed in his mind, her angelic smile, her copper tresses . . . He sighed and calmed a little. She had a way of doing that to him. There was something about her—
“What?” Foster’s voice came out high, tearing Roland from his vision. “He’s turning again.”
The left turn signal flashed, but the Lexus turned right.
“Think he’s on to us?” Peter grinned, his face beaming with sheer delight. Sometimes he seemed absolutely nuts, thrilled over things others would fear. He couldn’t have gotten the quality from his parents, his father a rugged, level-headed forest ranger, his mother a compassionate and organized woman. Maybe his younger autistic brother’s bizarre behaviors drove him to it.
“This way only goes to the backside of some stores,” Foster said.
The Lexus passed a gas station and drove behind the grocery store at the end of a strip mall.
Leo stopped in the parking lot.
“What’re you doing, man?” Foster wailed on Leo’s arm. “He went back there.”
Leo leaned on the steering wheel, stared for a moment, then pointed toward the corner of the grocery store. “See the sign? It says deliveries only. We can’t go back there.”
“He went back there.” Foster’s freckled face turned red.
Roland shook his head. What did Foster care? He didn’t even know the mission. Maybe he just loved a good adventure.
“Go!” Peter slammed the headrest.
Leo glanced to either side before throwing the car in drive. He rolled behind the grocery store into an enclosed area of loading docks and dumpsters. His mouth fell open. “Oh, man!” He slammed the brakes hard.
Roland smacked into Foster’s seatback.
“What?” Peter craned his neck. “What’s your prob—”
The Lexus pulled out from behind a dumpster, heading for them. It stopped. The driver’s door flew open and out jumped Roland’s older brother Jarret. He strutted toward them, one hand rubbing his stubbly chin and the other clutching a pipe-wrench, try me written on his face.
“Shoot, shoot, chicken spit,” Leo said, throwing the car in reverse. “You didn’t tell me . . .” He cranked his head to peer over his shoulder as he backed the car up. “You didn’t say . . .”
Roland stared, dumbfounded. Jarret never wore ripped jeans or dingy shirts. The fashionable, rich-boy image meant everything to him. What type of kids had he been hanging with? What foul things did they do? Jarret must’ve been totally lost without his twin brother Keefe.
As Leo’s car whined backing up, Jarret stopped and took a wide-legged stance. A slow, crooked grin stretched across his face. He slapped the wrench against his palm and gave a slow nod.
“Go, go, go!” Peter and Foster said together.
Leo threw the car in drive, floored it, and did an about-face with a screech. Barreling out onto the road, he pounded the steering wheel and grumbled under his breath. “So, that’s why you didn’t tell me.” He shot everyone a furious look, Foster getting the longest one. “I’m gonna have Jarret West after me now.”
Peter faced Roland. “Think he knew it was us?”
Roland shook his head and leaned back. His body relaxed for the first time since he had set out. Peter kept staring at him, so he added, “Don’t worry; it’s too dark to see inside the car.”
“Worry? Me? I’m not worried.” Peter raised his voice and eyed Leo. “I’m not afraid of Jarret West.”
“Why are you following him anyway?” Leo peered at Roland through the mirror.
“Don’t worry. We don’t need to know. Roland paid us,” Foster said in a calming tone.
“Think Jarret knows my car?” Leo spoke low.
Foster mumbled a reply. Leo said something about not wanting to ride the bus to school. Foster said something else.
“Maybe we followed too closely.” Roland stared out the window at the purplish sky.
“Not to worry, my secretive friend.” Peter leaned to whisper, “I know a better way to follow him. We can keep some distance, not be seen.”
ROLAND SAT ON THE END of Peter’s unmade bed watching Peter work at his cluttered desk.
Peter looked back and forth from a page of instructions to the small black box in his hands. “So, are you gonna tell me why you’re stalking your brother,
or not? I mean, I think it’s only fair if I’m gonna be helping you out here—”
“All right, fine.” Roland bit his lip, trying to think of the best way to explain it without making Jarret look bad. “Before my father decided Keefe would go on my Italy trip . . .” He still felt a bit of resentment even though he’d made it impossible for Papa to take him as originally planned. “. . . Jarret begged me not to tell on him.”
“Begged you?” Peter whispered, grinning and probably trying to picture it. Jarret wasn’t one to beg. He threatened, manipulated, sneaked. And this particular request was more of a friendly threat, anyway, than actual begging.
“Papa—I mean, my father said if he found out Jarret was responsible for any of the stunts I pulled two weeks ago, he would send Jarret away.” Roland had never gotten in more trouble in his life, though none of it was his fault, really. It all started when he had overheard Jarret scheming about the Italy trip and had confronted him. Roland ended up taking a beating, getting locked in the basement, then running away and staying at Peter’s house without permission. A couple days later, he returned home and Jarret locked him up again, not letting him out until after school. Of course, he had to serve detention for skipping school. Then there were the cigarettes, and Papa’s missing coins . . .
“Sent away?” Peter’s eyes flashed with hungry curiosity. He reached for a screwdriver and closed the black box.
Roland clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Yeah, my father threatened to separate him and Keefe, his twin, by sending him to private school or to live with my father’s friends in Arizona.”
Peter chuckled. He always seemed to enjoy gossip. “You should’ve told on him. You didn’t do anything wrong, but you took the fall. I don’t get it. If you’da told, then you’d be in Italy and he’d be in Arizona. It’d be a perfect arrangement.”
Roland shrugged. Maybe he should’ve told, but he’d felt compelled to cover his brother’s sin with the mantle of charity, to put it in the words of a little-known saint named Conrad, to whom he’d recently developed a devotion. He’d known he would lose out on the Italy trip, but he hadn’t considered that Papa would take Keefe and leave him alone with Jarret. “I didn’t want him separated from Keefe. Because after he threatened me—”
“Begged you.” Peter grinned.
“Whatever. He told me Keefe was his conscience.”
Peter’s smirk faded. “Oh. And Keefe’s gone. Yeah, that could be bad.” After another glance at the black box, he tossed the screwdriver into a toolbox on the floor.
“I feel responsible for the way things turned out.”
“You shouldn’t. Whether you told or not, Jarret would now be separated from his twin, right? Separated from his conscience.” His grin returned.
“I guess so.” Roland stood and paced to the window. “But I’m worried about him. Since they left, he’s been gone every day after school. And he comes home late. Where does he go? Who’s he with? What’re they doing?”
“Hmm. For a kid without a conscience, the possibilities are endless.”
He turned to glare at Peter. “Well, I’m glad you’re amused. But I’m not.”
“Don’t get so touchy, man.” Peter held up the shiny black box and waved his brows. “Soon your questions will be answered.” He slapped the device into Roland’s hand.
It was a four-inch black box with a panel on one side. It didn’t look like much.
“You’ll need to get this inside your dad’s Lexus. That’s the car Jarret uses, right?”
Roland chewed his bottom lip and nodded. “You sure this thing will work?”
“Of course it’ll work. My transmitter worked, didn’t it? I’ve been working to get a greater tracking distance. If he gets outside the range, we’ll have to search for him, I guess. But this’ll send a signal when we’re close enough, about a quarter of a mile.”
“A quarter of a mile? That’s it?”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. He snatched the tracker back. “Yeah, that’s it. Tracking devices using radio frequencies typically get three hundred to five hundred feet. I’m talking a quarter of a mile. It’s not a GPS device.” His face flushed.
“Sorry.” Roland lifted his hands as a gesture of peace. “Fine. It’s fine.”
“So, when are we doing it?”
“Tomorrow.” Roland stared blankly out the window. He’d have to plant the tracking device in the Lexus some time tonight or early in the morning. Without getting caught.
Chapter Three
Keefe
From the balcony of their fifth-story, luxury hotel room—cell phone to his ear—Keefe West feasted his eyes on the sea of red-tiled roofs and pale buildings of Florence, Italy. A red dome rose up in the distance. He couldn’t wait to see what it belonged to. When would Papa let him loose to explore the area?
They’d arrived in Florence after dark a few days ago, but Papa had kept him busy with online research and phone calls while he met with dealers. They had taken all their meals in the hotel restaurant, so the view from the balcony was all Keefe had seen of the city. Still . . . it was amazing.
He had traveled often with his family, and each place had something to offer, but he had never left the continental U.S. Being an ocean away from home, in a city so unlike any he’d ever seen, made him feel different inside. He felt free—not that it made sense. Free from what? He felt like he’d woken from a coma or as if life just began. His soul sang with a sense of adventure.
Keefe stepped back from the balcony railing, sat in a wrought iron chair, and closed his eyes. A soothing breeze blew his dark curls into his face. It carried the scent of a woman’s flowery perfume. Indistinct chatter and laughter came from somewhere below. God, he was blessed to be here.
How had he lucked out, being chosen by Papa to go on this trip? Papa had originally wanted Roland to go. Roland always threw himself into work, helping Papa with assignments, so it only made sense that he should’ve been the one. Jarret had messed it up for Roland, making him look bad, blaming him for things he hadn’t done, and even getting Nanny to believe the lies. Roland could’ve defended himself and explained his side of things. He had barely made an effort. Why? It didn’t make sense. If he had, he’d be here right now, gazing down at the awesome view of clay roofs and antiquated buildings. He’d have loved it.
Keefe’s eyes snapped open, his guilt in the situation weighing on him. He’d wanted to tell Papa before. But when Papa chose him to go on this trip, he hadn’t wanted to blow it. Now his conscience nagged him to come clean.
He glanced at his cell phone then stuffed it into the back pocket of his chinos. Why wouldn’t Jarret answer his phone or call? The second Papa had announced Keefe would go on the trip, Jarret had grown distant and angry. Sure, it took him a long time to get over things, but that was over a week ago.
The balcony door slid open, and a sheer white curtain blew out, flapping against Keefe’s legs and the wrought iron chair. Papa stepped outside backwards, lighting his pipe.
“Did you talk to Jarret?” Keefe scooted his chair over a few inches.
Papa shook his head, holding the pipe to one side of his mouth while smoke seeped out the other. Lowering the pipe, he leaned his forearms on the balcony railing and made a sweeping gaze of the view. “I spoke with your nanny and Roland. Everything’s fine over there. I wouldn’t worry about Jarret. It takes him a while to haul in his horns.”
Keefe nodded. “It’s seven hours earlier back home, right?”
“Yup. It’s about seven-thirty there now. Maybe he’s in the shower.”
Keefe shook his head. Jarret wasn’t in the shower. He knew exactly what his twin did and when. Jarret kept a strict morning routine: wake at five-thirty to work out on the weights, then shower, breakfast, and off to school by seven-forty.
“I remember being here with your mother.”
Keefe’s ears perked. Papa rarely spoke about Mama since her death many years ago. “Here? Did you stay at this hotel?”
Papa nodd
ed and stuffed the pipe into his mouth. Years under the sun as an archaeologist had made him tan and weathered, but he always had an air of distinction, a cool composure that rarely wavered. As he gazed out over the city, his deep blue eyes seemed to view something else, some memory or impression of the past.
“How long were you two in Italy?” Keefe longed to know more, but he’d have to tread lightly to get Papa to keep talking.
A smile flickered on Papa’s lips, fading when he glanced at Keefe. “Several months.” The cold look in Papa’s eyes said the conversation was over.
“What did you two do here?” Keefe wanted to ask, but Papa never said more than he wanted to, and prodding soured his mood.
Keefe took a breath. Might as well get the confession out and give his conscience a rest. “Papa, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Papa’s eyes shifted to him.
“I, uh . . . It’s about Roland.” Keefe shoved the curls off his forehead, trying to think how to word it. He should probably just blurt it out. “I really shouldn’t be here. Roland should. I want to explain what happened two weeks ago, what I did.”
Papa lowered his head and adjusted his cowboy hat. “No, son. Let’s leave that be. I know that situation was a mite different from what it appeared, different from what you boys told me. I know Roland had very little guilt in the matter. But I respect his decision to . . .” He looked Keefe dead in the eyes. “. . . cover for his brothers.”
Keefe swallowed hard. So Papa already knew. Papa knew he had some share in the guilt.
“Each one of you needs to think for yourself and not go along with things that are wrong or questionable. You need to learn to fish on your own hook.” Papa’s gaze sharpened, piercing a deep place in Keefe’s soul. “You need to find yourself, Keefe. That’s why I brought you with me.”
A breeze ruffled Keefe’s hair. He shifted in the cool, wrought iron chair. With a glance and a few words, Papa had laid his soul bare and exposed his weakness. Papa was right. He did need to find himself. He had gone along with Jarret, for good or bad, all his life. Until now, he hadn’t considered it a weakness. Jarret needed him. How many times had he talked Jarret out of making bad choices? Jarret had even told him that Keefe was his conscience. What would Jarret do without his guidance?