Trust in Me (3 page)

“Damn fool kid,” the guy who cornered him barked out. “What the
hell
makes you think you can get away with this?”

Ron had heard that sissy Southern drawl on TV; he knew whose voice it was. If he circled around, he’d see the big rangy body, the cropped blond hair and the cold green eyes of Tucker Quaid.

The man who’d killed Ron’s father.

o0o

TUCKER Quaid prowled the police station waiting area, a stark twelve-by-twelve room smelling of stale coffee and furnished with sticky orange vinyl chairs. He was more keyed up than he used to get before a big race. With each step, he cursed a blue streak.

He should’ve known that coming back to Glen Oaks would be bad news all around. But shit, he hadn’t planned on
this
. He’d been poleaxed when he’d learned the snot-nosed brat who’d slashed his Jag was Danny Donovan’s son. Tucker had jerked the knife out of the boy’s hand, smashed him facedown on the hood, then pinned the kid there with his knee and chest. He’d whipped out his cell phone and punched in 911, only to hear, upon the arrival of a Lieutenant Pratt, who the vandal was. Damn it to hell. Couldn’t anything go right with this friggin’ family?

Drawing a cup of coffee, he sipped the brew, wincing at its bitterness, scowling down at the scarred wood floor. As always, the guilt came, as clear and cold as a mountain lake—and just as sobering. Searching hard for his alter ego,
The Menace
, Tucker tried to block the images. But the kid looked so damn much like his daddy that the memories were impossible to backstop.

This time Tucker was bombarded by one of the zillion headlines from the newspapers. Big, bold, accusing letters declared,
Menace’s controversial blocking takes life of young driver NASCAR investigation to follow.

Remorse had dogged Tucker like a rabid fan as he followed the racing circuit and climbed the slippery ladder of success until his own crash three years before had left him with a bum knee and no desire to race again.

Yeah, hotshot, what’re you doing here, then?

Tucker sighed. Good question.

Before he could answer it, the door to the waiting area flew open and people hustled in. Aw, shit! It had to happen someday, since he was back in town, but he hadn’t expected it so soon, or when he was so raw, or when he’d had a couple of bourbons under his belt to lower his defenses. He tried to marshal them fast.

Danny Donovan’s widow, and the guy with her, froze just inside the room. At a loss for words, Tucker simply stared at them, feeling like a Class-A bastard.

Breaking the freeze-frame first, the man approached him. To Tucker’s surprise, he held out his hand. “I’m Linc Grayson, Mr. Quaid. Ronny’s uncle. We’re sorry about this.”

Uncle. Grayson
. He had to be Beth Donovan’s brother, then. Though Tucker hadn’t ever talked to her personally, he knew something about her family. “I reckon I’m sorry, too,” he said as he shook Grayson’s hand. Tucker tried to stifle the shame and stigma of his actions of ten years before, but they surfaced like topped-off gasoline when he stared over Linc Grayson’s shoulder into the rounded eyes and troubled face of the man’s sister. It about tore him up all over again.

Dressed casually in jeans, a red sweatshirt and a windbreaker, she’d changed in the ten years since he’d last seen pictures of the
grieving widow
, as the papers had played it out. She’d been in her twenties then, with long dark hair and smooth, clear skin. No worry lines had marred her brow. No creases had framed her mouth. The wear and tear of raising a son alone, supporting herself, and dealing with
her childhood sweetheart’s death
had taken its toll on her. Though there was a womanliness about her now that could make a guy ache deep in his gut, she’d aged. And toughened up.

In a rusty voice, he mumbled, “Mrs. Donovan. I’m sorry.” Inadequate words. Goddamn it, he’d waxed eloquent in interviews after winning at Daytona and Darlington, but he was as tongue tied as a teenager on his first date in front of these two strangers.

She crossed the room, tall and graceful, and smiled sadly at him. Close up, her brown-as-chestnut eyes were bloodshot and a little puffy, like she’d been crying. Free of any cosmetics, her skin was spattered with freckles. “No, Mr. Quaid,
I’m
sorry. For what Ronny did.”

Honesty made him say, “Understandable.”

“Unacceptable,” she answered. “He had no right...”

Tucker held her gaze, dumbstruck by what he saw there. No blame, no bitterness that he’d ruined her life. There was only cold acceptance.

Grayson broke the tense stare-off. “Shall we sit?”

Crumpling up his cup and tossing it into a rank-smelling trash can, Tucker dropped into a chair.

“Want some coffee, Bethy?” Grayson asked.

Beth Donovan nodded. “I think we’ll be here awhile.”

Her brother had poured her a cup and one for himself, when the door to the holding room opened. The muscle-bound lieutenant with a jaw made of stone nodded to Beth. “Good, you’re here, Beth.” He glanced at her brother. “Reverend.”

Surprise ambushed Tucker and he blurted out,
“Reverend?”
He studied the man, seeing a boxer, or even a construction worker, in the solid wiry form that sported jeans, a flannel shirt and a quilted vest. His face was stubbled with a growth of beard, and his dark hair brushed his collar; he didn’t look like any minister Tucker had ever seen.

Despite the circumstances, all three people smiled, even the stand-at-attention lieutenant. “A common reaction,” Grayson said. “I don’t look the type.”

“It’s ’cause you’re not,” Beth told him affectionately. This, at least, brought a sparkle to her eyes.

Lieutenant Pratt quelled another smile and nodded. “I’m glad you’re here, in any case. Ronny’s more surly than usual.”

Beth drew in an anxious breath. Linc reached for her hand and pulled her up. “We’ll deal with this, honey. Let’s go in.”

“You, too, Mr. Quaid.” The cold reserve of the lieutenant made the Graysons appear downright cozy with him. Doc had warned him that even though the town council had literally begged Tucker to come to Glen Oaks, some people would treat him like a leper.

Which was just fine with him. He’d lived the last ten years in an emotional wasteland, and he planned to keep it that way. Especially while he was in Glen Oaks.

The holding room was smaller than the waiting area. The air bore the faint scent of sweat. Straight-back chairs were pushed up to an old wooden table; one seat was already occupied by the young man of the hour—knees spread, head bent, hands linked together. When they entered, the boy looked up. Tucker expected the insolence Pratt had mentioned and which he’d seen earlier. Instead, when Ron Donovan’s eyes landed on his mother, there was only sadness in them. He said nothing, though, just stared at her.

Linc spoke first. “You okay, buddy?”

Transferring his gaze to his uncle, the boy nodded.

After a moment, Beth crossed to her son and squeezed his shoulder. She bent down and whispered something to him, making his head droop lower. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Gently she kissed his hair.

Averting his gaze, Tucker took in the white walls covered with WANTED posters, the overhead fluorescent lighting and a phone on the square table; he looked anywhere but at mother and son.

Beth asked the lieutenant, “What’s going to happen now, Mike?”

Small towns. Tucker had forgotten what they were like. He’d buried all memories of the backwater village in South Carolina where he’d grown up almost as deep as he’d buried his recollection of that life-altering day here in Glen Oaks ten years before.

Pratt dropped his file on the table and indicated they should sit. When all five were settled, the officer said, “He’s had his last chance, Beth, you know that. When he ripped off those boots.” The cop’s gaze hardened. “And his grandparents aren’t going to pull strings this time, like they did before.”

“I know.” She stared at her son, but again not like he was some alien creature, whose behavior was foreign to her. It was as if she
understood
him. Felt bad for him. Tucker didn’t get it.

“But that was a year ago.” This from Uncle Linc. “He’s been straight since then.”

“I realize that.” Pratt shot a quick glance at Tucker. “But I also know he’s been in trouble at school since the end of February.”

When The Menace had returned to Glen Oaks. The cause of the boy’s backsliding was obvious. Tucker wanted to squirm on the hard chair like a kid in the principal’s office, but forced himself to sit still. Nobody spoke.

Then Pratt focused in on the mother. “I’m going to arrest him for this, Beth.”

Her little gasp knifed Tucker low in the belly.

“He just turned seventeen.” Her voice was close to a whisper. “He’ll have a record as an adult if you do that.”

Blowing out a frustrated breath, the officer shook his head. “He knew all this, didn’t you, Ron?”

The boy ran his finger over one of the scars in the table. “I knew.”

“You want to go to jail, Ronny?” Linc asked.

His gaze still lowered, Ron shook his head.

“Then why’d you do this?”

The boy’s head came up fast, and this time his face
was
surly; he looked loaded for bear.

Grayson told him, “It’s gotta come out, Ron. You gotta see it.”

“I
see
it.” He spat out the words.

The minister surfaced from inside the uncle. “You’re having trouble with Mr. Quaid’s return to Glen Oaks, aren’t you?”

“I don’t give a shit about
Mr. Quaid
.”

“I wish you wouldn’t swear in front of your mother, bud.”

Ron actually bit his lip. “Sorry.”

Man, this whole thing was out of kilter, Tucker thought. The kid had just committed a crime, and they were on him about swearing. But it wasn’t just that. There was no animosity among the three of them.

“Look, I did this,” Ron admitted. “I gotta pay.”

“You don’t know what you’re in for, honey,” Beth said with surprising strength. “There’ll be a heavy penalty this time.”

The grim resignation in her voice moved Tucker to action. “What if I don’t press charges?” he asked, unplanned, and maybe unwisely.

Four heads snapped around to look at him.

Bitter hate flared from the boy’s eyes. “Don’t do me any favors.”

Pratt scowled. “It isn’t that easy, Mr. Quaid. He committed a crime. The damage was thousands of dollars. I can’t let it go.”

“Why would you
want
to, Mr. Quaid?” Beth asked. “He destroyed your car.”

Tucker was stunned by the question. “How can you ask that?”

A kaleidoscope of feelings bounced crazily around them, rearranging the emotional landscape too fast to follow. Tucker scraped back his chair, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet room. “Obviously my comin’ here has brought on a fall from grace in the boy.”

The reverend gave a wry grin. “
From grace
is a pretty big stretch, but you’ve got the gist of it.”

“Look, I don’t condone what he did. But there seem to be extenuatin’ circumstances.”

“That’s an excuse,” Pratt said, shaking his head. “I won’t let him off scot-free.”

Linc’s eyes narrowed. “How about having the Council make a recommendation to the court?”

“The what?” Tucker asked.

“The Community Youth Council. An organization comprised of the police, the school, a community representative, the Social Service agency in town and a member of the clergy.” Linc smiled sadly. “Glen Oaks has a long-standing problem with the youth of this town. It has something to do with the influence of the race track and our proximity to New York City. We’ve established a council to set up programs to keep the kids straight, and our own kind of lay court to deal with minor transgressions. We also make recommendations to the judge.”

“This crime is more than minor,” the lieutenant put in.

“But the circumstances are unusual. And since Mr. Quaid has indicated an understanding, maybe this is the best route to go.”

“I don’t like it.” Pratt’s face was implacable.

“You’ve been pleased with Ronny’s turnaround this last year.”

“I have.”

“At least let the committee meet. You’re on the Council. You know we don’t let the kids off scot-free, Mike.”

Pratt jangled the keys attached to his belt loop and stared at the floor thoughtfully. “All right. Try to call it for Friday night.” He faced Tucker. “You think about this, Mr. Quaid.”

“Sure.” Tucker had no intention whatsoever of thinking about whether or not he was gonna hurt this family again.

Glancing at the clock, Pratt stood. “Take him home, Beth.” He zeroed in on Ron. “It’s not over, kid.”

Ron stared sullenly at him. Everyone rose.

Beth said, “Linc, take Ronny out to the car, will you? I’d like to talk to Mr. Quaid for a minute.”

Her brother gave her a sideways glance, and her son glared at her.

“Stay here.” Pratt headed for the door with Linc and Ron. “I’ll walk you two out.”

Tucker’s heartbeat speeded up like he was about to circle around a hairpin turn. His palms began to sweat. He’d been staying out at the lake with Doc and avoided this woman since he’d come back to Glen Oaks three weeks before; he’d planned to keep his distance for the six months he’d be here.

They were alone all too soon.

Tucker swallowed hard and faced her.

Huge brown eyes stared up at him. Again he was surprised there was no anger in them, no blame. Having grown up with animosity as a daily diet, Tucker didn’t know how to digest Beth Donovan’s attitude at all.

o0o

“WHAT’D you wanna talk to me about, Mrs. Donovan?” As in the pictures she’d seen of him, before and after the accident, Beth noted how hard Tucker Quaid’s face was. His jaw was granite-edged, his mouth stem and unsmiling. But she knew a living, breathing man suffered inside the expensive leather jacket and tailored pants and shirt he wore. In the weeks following the crash, a few of the photos had captured a tortured look on his face. There’d also been the letter he’d written her, full of remorse. He’d offered financial assistance, which she’d of course declined.