Child of Fire

behind the wheel than he had in his offices.

Of course, it wasn’t Charles behind the wheel. It was a well-dressed, dark-haired woman. She had broad, even, lovely features, hair that reached just below her ears. Her legs were thick with well-toned muscle. She looked to be about thirty.

And I had just jumped into her car like a carjacker.

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, I… um…”

“Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked her.

She glanced at the cell phone holstered beside her car radio. “Do you want to call the police?” I asked. “Go ahead. I think that’s a terrific idea.”

“Look,” she said, shrinking fearfully against the door, her hand inching toward the door release. “I’m sorry about following you around. You met with my brother, and-“

“Who’s your brother?”

“Charles Hammer. At Hammer Bay Toys.” I nodded. I could see the resemblance. “I wanted to talk to you-“

“Then why did you pull away when I approached you the first time?”

“I wasn’t sure then. I just decided this morning.”

She’d laid her hand on the door release, looking like she was ready to throw herself out of the car at any moment. I noticed a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. It was tasteful and worth more than Uncle Ethan’s van. When she grimaced, I saw that her teeth were as white as pearls.

“What ever,” I said. I felt sour. I didn’t want to terrify some woman. I didn’t like the way she was looking at me. “Whoever you are, stop following me around. I don’t like it.”

I opened the door and slid out of the vehicle.

“Wait!” she called. I waited for her, both of my feet on the concrete and my hand on the door, ready to slam it shut.

“I’m sorry. I really do want to talk to you. I think you can help me. Would you meet me at this address in an hour?”

She held out a business card. I didn’t take it. There was no point in getting distracted in my search for Charles Hammer.

Unless she was willing to help me.

“Please?”

I shrugged and took the card. She thanked me and apologized again. I shut the door. She pulled away.

I looked at the card. It read Cynthia Hammer. Below that was an address on Hammer Street. That was the right last name. I turned and walked back to the parking lot.

The fright I had given Cynthia Hammer had taken all the fun out of being a bastard. I returned to Uncle Ethan’s van and tossed the keys on the floor by the brake pedal. I was tempted to wipe it down for fingerprints, but I noticed drops of blood on the driver’s-side door and decided not to bother. Uncle Ethan, Georgie, and their two buddies should be turning up soon to have their hands worked on. They might as well find their ride waiting for them, even if they couldn’t drive it home.

I walked around to the front of the hospital into the reception area. The very polite matron working there told me that visiting hours had just started. It was one in the afternoon. When I admitted that I was a friend of Harlan’s, not a family member, she told me I would need permission from the family to visit.

She called a volunteer over and spoke to her in low tones. The volunteer then said, “Follow me, sir,” in a shy voice. She led me to the elevator.

The inside of the elevator was stainless steel polished as bright as a mirror. I saw my dirty, rumpled pants and bloody, torn shirt. I didn’t like the way I looked.

The elevator doors opened, and the volunteer led me down a quiet hall to a little waiting area. Shireen sat alone, reading a tattered copy of Redbook. She was wearing a WSU Cougar sweatshirt.

The volunteer spoke to her in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “This gentleman would like to visit Harlan. Would that be all right?”

“Yes,” Shireen said. She turned to me. “Maybe he’ll talk to you. I’m his only family in the entire world, and he treats me like an enemy.”

The volunteer had already started back toward the elevator. Shireen returned to her magazine. “Which room?” I asked.

She tossed her magazine onto the vinyl couch with an irritated sigh. “This way,” she said.

She opened the door and stepped into Harlan’s room. I heard a rasping voice before I saw him. He said, “Out,” in a raw, strained voice.

“Someone is here to visit you,” Shireen said. “Try to show him more courtesy than you’ve shown me.”

Harlan lay in the bed. He had tubes in his nose, his arms, and his chest. He looked smaller, than I remembered him, but everyone looked smaller lying in a hospital bed. Everyone looked smaller without a gun, too.

Shireen pushed by me and shut the door behind her. I pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed.

Harlan looked pale and exhausted. He might have been getting good care, but no one was going to make him live if he didn’t want to.

“Having a bad week?” I asked. Harlan made a wheezing sound that might have been laughter. He winced in