But seeing that black eye, I was reminded of something my Dad said.
“A wrong is just wrong no matter who’s doin’ it or who it’s done to. You know someone’s doin’ wrong and even if it has not one thing to do with you, you do what you can to right that wrong. You don’t, you’re no kind of person or, at least, no kind of person I’d wanna know.”
These were words Dad lived by.
This was also a philosophy that meant him living in Carnal with what had been going on for as long as it had been going on had made his life a living hell.
He’d lodged formal complaints (twelve of them) against the Carnal Police Department. He’d also encouraged others to do the same, blatantly and with intent, even going so far as to go to their house and have a chat (or chats, plural, if need be) if he heard something not right had gone down. He’d also visited Mick Shaughnessy, the head honcho of the Police Force in Gnaw Bone and a buddy of my Dad’s, about how he could intervene and he did this more than once (in fact, five times that I knew). He’d further told Arnold Fuller, the dirty cop ringleader, the police Captain then the Chief of Police, and now a dead man (literally), exactly what he thought of him on more than one occasion both publicly and privately.
As well as all this, even though everyone agreed, Dad was one of few who speculated openly and widely (in other words, to all who would listen, including Mick Shaughnessy) about the fact that Ty Walker was extradited to stand trial and then went down for a crime my father was certain (and he was right) Ty didn’t commit.
And last, my Dad had been pulled over and had more tickets than any other citizen in town and once had been arrested for drunk and disorderly when he was neither. And all this happened because he did all of the above.
Every single ticket, as well as the arrest, he fought loudly, boisterously but not always successfully.
But he never gave up.
And I knew, looking at that boy, wrong was being done to him. I also knew, with his eye swollen shut, I had to stop doing the little I was doing, letting him get away with stealing books (essentially) and I had to start doing something more.
I searched the immediate area, noted no patrons were close to approaching the check out desk and I skirted it to move out into the library. Cautiously and quietly, I moved up the steps then, like a super-sleuth, feeling more than a little idiotic, I rounded the shelves and stopped. Hiding my body, I peeked just my head around the side to check the aisle to see if he was there.
I found him three rows in.
I pulled my head back, pressed my back into the side of the shelf and took a deep breath.
Then I peeked just my head around again and called softly, “Please don’t run. You aren’t in trouble.”
He was squatting to the bottom shelf, a book in his hand and his head snapped around and up.
It was then I saw the full extent of damage to his face.
Not only a black eye, swollen shut, and a bruised cheekbone but a swollen, painful looking nose and a gash on his lip that glistened, not because it had been treated with ointment but because it was gaping and exposing flesh.
My stomach clutched, my frame froze and my throat closed. He dropped the book, shot up straight and dashed down the aisle the opposite direction from me.
At his movements, I came unstuck, quickly turned on my boot and raced down my side, clearing the shelves and seeing him darting down the stairs. No, jumping down them three steps at a time, taking him down in two big jumps that made my heart jump with him because I feared he’d harm himself.
“Please! Stop! You’re not in trouble!” I shouted. “Promise!” I kept shouting as I ran down the steps after him. “I just want to talk!”
Out the door he went and out the door I went after him, down the sidewalk to town.
The pavements were cleared, my boots had low heels and I belonged to McLeod’s Gym. I didn’t do those boot camps they had at McLeod’s because they weren’t at times I could attend (not to mention, I’d heard about them and they scared me). But I did go four times a week to spend half an hour on the Stairmaster, treadmill or rowing machine.
“A body takes care of itself or a body finds they don’t have a body no more.”
This was more of Dad’s wisdom. So I took care of mine.
This meant, I might not be ready to attempt my first Iron Man, but I wasn’t in bad shape.
Even with all this going for me, I was no match for the boy. He sprinted three blocks gaining more and more, darted around the corner into town and by the time I darted around it after him, he’d disappeared.
I stood there, breathing slightly heavy, my gaze scanning the area to find any trace of him but he was gone.
“Darn,” I whispered, hoping I didn’t scare him into never coming back at the same time knowing that was not all I should do.
He was nine or ten and regularly beaten by someone. Bullies or, God, I hoped not, family. I knew it. And I had to do something about it.
I stood in the cold without a coat, my breaths coming out in visible puffs, my mind sifting through my possible next steps.
First, I had to get back to the library. I was the only one on which meant there was no one there except patrons.
Then, I could do two things.
One, I could call my Dad, tell him what was happening and lay the problem on his broad shoulders, knowing he’d look into it then promptly do something about it.
Two, I could be a grown up, not call my Dad to hand over a burden that wasn’t mine but was all the same and I could go to the Police Station, report what I’d seen and hope they’d do something about it.
The problem with that was, Chace Keaton worked at the Police Station.
The boy’s nose, eye, cheekbone and lip came into sharp relief in my mind’s eye and I closed my actual eyes as I sucked in breath.
I opened them and turned back to the library knowing what I had to do.
I should note, not liking it.
But knowing it.
Chace
It was quarter to seven when she walked in.
He’d applied for the job in Carnal upon graduation from the Academy. It was the only place he’d worked since earning his badge and he’d worked there thirteen years.
And not once had Faye Goodknight walked into the Police Department. Not even when Rowdy Crabtree brought her father in on that trumped up charge for drunk and disorderly when Silas Goodknight had just been in Bubba’s, a place he didn’t frequent but he wasn’t a stranger. Silas had been celebrating a friend’s fiftieth birthday. Silas, nowhere near drunk and definitely not disorderly, spent the night in the tank. His wife, Sondra, had come in to make bail and pick him up.
Fortunately, the charge didn’t stick. And none of the Goodknights knew this but the reason it didn’t was because Chace intervened with Fuller, talking him down about targeting another well-respected, well-liked citizen. He’d explained Fuller already had enough talk in town about what was done to Walker, he didn’t need more speculation. And worse, he didn’t need to rile up Goodknight who had demonstrated, repeatedly, he was not the kind of man to go away quiet, lick his wounds and fight another day. He was the kind of man who would go down fighting which meant he’d take others with him.
Fuller had, surprisingly, relented and set up Crabtree to take the hit of a bad arrest.