“There are gonna be a few,” Wiz says. “Sooner the better.”
“This is a big one. I went out to the Crawford’s yesterday; checking up and keeping contact with the little bugger and . . . it looks like they’re not gonna be able to keep him.”
Wiz eyes close. “Shhhhhhh . . . What happened?”
“Economic reality,” Walter says. “They’ve been juggling finances to keep their mortgage paid up, and it finally caught up with them. Looks like they’re gonna lose the place. Where they’re gonna land is . . . unknown.”
Wiz closes his eyes and sighs. “I best go get him, then,” he says. “Sooner the better. You wanna go with me, Walter? He’s going to need a familiar face.”
I say, “I can go, too.”
“You’ve got school.”
“I’ll call the attendance office in my sick voice, tell them I’ll bring a note in the morning.”
“Why not?” Wiz says. “When this all falls apart, contributing to your truancy will be the lesser charge they can drop.”
The waiter brings our breakfast and we dig in. After a bit, Wiz puts his fork down. “Where in the world are we going to put him?”
We drive in a state car several miles north of Spokane to a farm outside Colbert. Walter has called ahead, and a man whose age looks to be somewhere between Wiz and Walter meets us in the driveway. He’s apologizing as we get out of the car.
“No sweat, Orland,” Walter says. “Couldn’ta seen this coming, right?”
“Wish that were true,” Orland says. “I’ve been robbing Peter to pay Paul for too long, hoping I could keep it going, but no can do. Julia’s pretty embarrassed.”
Wiz holds up his halt! hand. “It’s okay, Orland; you’ve got your hands full, and you bought us time.” He introduces me, and Orland invites us in.
“Annie!” Frankie shoots across the kitchen in an attempt to bowl me over.
“Hey, bud! I haven’t seen you forever!”
“I gots to move again,” Frankie says. “Do I get to go with you? To Marvin’s house?”
I glance at Wiz. “You’ll get to see Marvin sometime soon,” I say, “but we’re not going to his house right yet.”
“Is my mom still gone?”
“We’re lookin’ for her,” Wiz says. “Got a feeling . . .” and he lets it trail off. He learned a long time ago not to say wishes out loud to little kids.
Walter drifts into the living room, and I hear muffled voices. In a minute or two he appears in the doorway and motions to me. “The missus wants to meet you.”
Julia Crawford is dressed in an army T-shirt and camo pants—real government issue. Julia must have been a soldier. She shakes my hand and smiles kind of sheepishly. “I’m so sorry. . . .” She nods toward the doorway, toward Frankie’s nonstop chatter. “He talks about you all the time,” she says. “Are you going to be there for him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And if you have any influence over that sister of yours . . .”
I laugh. “Well, I make her pretty mad, if that counts.”
“See if you can make her mad enough to be real in his life. I can see”—and she nods at Walter and points toward the kitchen—“there are a lot of people who love this little troublemaker, but this boy needs his mother. Even if she can’t take care of him—he needs her somehow.”
I feel the pang. “Somehow is about how he’ll get her, if at all. I’ll see if I can make her mad enough to act different.”
Julia pats my hand. “All right then. You all clear the road for Frankie. Little guy’s gonna need a wide one.”
My gut tells me I should be angry, thinking of this one more loss, but the Crawfords did us a solid, as they say—I mean, they could wind up as accessories, right?
“Isn’t it illegal in this state to talk on your cell while driving?” I ask. Wiz has two wheels in the gravel on the edge of the road as he tries to dial and drive.
“Add it to the charges,” he says, and corrects back onto the pavement. “Aiding and abetting a kidnapper, lying to the police, ignoring my superiors, and talking on a cell phone while driving. Should get two life sentences at least.” He finishes punching in the numbers. Geez, doesn’t he know about Contacts? Or Siri?
This side of the conversation:
“Hey, honey . . . Yeah, I’m driving but I’ve got the earphone in (liar). . . . Listen, remember how you said our life was getting boring—kids gone, go to work, come home, have a drink and dinner, watch TV, go to bed, repeat? . . . Well, I think I have an idea how to break some of those boring habits. . . . No, I want it to be a surprise. . . . No, just promise you’ll give it a try, or at least hear me out. . . . Hey, have I ever disappointed you? . . . Okay, there was that . . . yeah, and that. . . . Okay, okay, but this will be an adventure. . . . Yeah, if it doesn’t work out, we can get divorced. . . . Love you, too, bye.”
He looks to us. “She has a real sense of humor.”
I say, “Does that mean Frankie’s going where I think he’s going?”
“It does if you think he’s going to my place,” Wiz says. “We’ve had our foster license for thirty years, took in a few over the years. I figure the safest way to keep Frankie from ratting us all out is to give him a place to rat where no one can hear.”
“He’s a load, Wiz,” I say. “You remember what he does, right?”
“Everybody in the department knows what he does. In my division ‘Frankie Boots’ is a verb. But my wife was a child therapist before she got her nursing license; she’s got some tricks up her sleeve. Plus, I live on the back road to Coeur d’ Alene, so he’ll still be out of sight. Won’t tell the press where he is because of confidentiality. The farther we get away from the original event, the better our chance of it all dying down.”
“So what’s the next problem needs solved?” Walter asks.
“Permanent placement,” Wiz says. “My wife can
