Chapter 23

Mike Paul was a good son. His day had started out in the toilet, but he’d managed to get his shit together and meet up with his folks for Christmas Eve service.

It had been a challenge. After his morning fiasco with Ivy, things weren’t looking good. Not more than five minutes down the road he’d taken a panicked phone call from Gord Martin. Mike Paul changed course and headed out to their farm, where he found Melba showing signs of colic. He wasted no time and arranged for the new mother to be transported to an equine hospital for treatment, which on Christmas Eve was a bit of a problem. It took more time than he liked, but in the end he was able to get it done and Melba was taken to Billings.

The family was upset about the situation—they knew that colic could be dangerous for a horse—but they had a young colt to look after. With no time to locate a surrogate mare, Gary and his daughter had followed him back to his place and Mike Paul set them up with everything they’d need to feed the young colt until its mother responded to treatment and returned. It wasn’t a guarantee, colic could prove fatal, but he had hope.

By mid-afternoon the stray shepherd decided it was time to have her puppies and struggled with the first one. When all was said and done she’d delivered six in total, and all were healthy and nursing the way they should be. Mike Paul barely had time to have a shower and grab some food before he had to head back to Big Bend.

He picked up Trish and the baby along the way, and they met his parents exactly one minute before the church doors closed. He’d left Jacob back at the house, along with his cell phone, which was plugged into his laptop charging. There were messages from Ivy he hadn’t had a chance to read, and thinking about her did nothing to lighten his mood.

“Then we can figure us out.”

He was still pissed about that statement. And maybe he should let it go, but a part of him couldn’t do it.

He was grumpy. Tired. Confused. And he didn’t think the Three Wise Men were going to help all that much.

“You look like the Grinch.”

“What?” He scowled and glanced at his sister.

She shrugged. “Just saying. It’s Christmas Eve. Lighten up.”

His scowl deepened.

“Are you going to Benton’s after this?” she asked.

“Dunno.”

“What does that mean?” Trish made a face.

“Do I need to haul out a dictionary?”

“You could, but I’m pretty sure dunno isn’t in there.”

“Will you be quiet?” Their mother gave them the look . “I swear it feels as if you two haven’t aged past ten.”

His mother had a point. He sighed and settled in for the remainder of the service. The pastor talked about love and faith and forgiveness, then some of the young children dressed up in costumes and reenacted the stable scene. By six o’clock, after some singing and more preaching, the service was over. Mike Paul got up and with a curt nod to some folks who clearly wanted to do more talking than he was planning on, he left.

Darkness had fallen and he pulled up his collar against the cold. It was a clear night, the stars were visible and there wasn’t a hint of snow. With nearly a full moon shining down, the Rockies were visible in the distance. It was the kind of night that made a man feel small.

“I wonder if it looked like this the night Jesus was born.” His mother came up alongside him.

“There’s no sky like this on the planet but here,” he replied.

“No, I don’t suppose there is.” His mother touched his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” He glanced at his sister. “I need to head home and grab my cell and then I’m going to Benton’s. Do you want a ride?”

“It’s my first Christmas Eve with Belinda. I’m going to stay home and watch It’s a Wonderful Life and eat caramel popcorn and candy canes and chocolate.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll catch a ride with Mom and Dad.”

“See you tomorrow?” His mother asked.

“I’ll be there for breakfast.”

He said goodbye to his parents and hopped in his truck. As he drove back to his place he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. It ate at him, this unease, but he figured that the something was him and Ivy. He also figured it was time he did something about it. He was done playing nice. He’d already told her that he loved her. It was time to lay things on the line.

Mike Paul parked his truck and left it running. The house was dark, which should have triggered something, but he was so focused on his phone and Ivy that it didn’t hit. He jogged up the path, hopped onto the porch, and was surprised to find Weiner and Bun waiting for him. They were shaking from the cold, and annoyed with Jake, he opened the door and followed the dogs inside.

“Jacob?”

No one answered.

He flipped on the light switch, and it took about five seconds for his brain to interpret what his eyes were seeing. Chaos. Destruction. The place was trashed. He called out for the kid again and ran upstairs, where he grabbed his cell phone and immediately called the Sheriff’s office.

Anne Sullivan answered and asked too many questions, probably because he kept answering with, “I don’t know.”

“Mike Paul do you want a deputy to come out there? Because I can send Humphries but he’s already at a call so it will take a while.”

“Send him when he’s done. I’ve got a missing kid.”

“Didn’t know you had one.”

“It’s the Clappison boy. He’s staying with me while his dad’s in jail.”

“All right. I’ll send Humphries out, but like I said, we’re short staffed seeing as it’s Christmas Eve so it will be a while.”

Where the hell was Jacob?

Mike Paul ran out to his office, but it was locked up and nothing was out of place. Then he headed for the barns and checked on the animals. Again, nothing was out of place. His cell phone pinged, and The Kid came up on caller ID. Relieved, he grabbed it as he turned to head back to the house.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Dad’s out.” The words were whispered.

Immediately concerned, Mike Paul stopped dead in his tracks. “Jake?”

“I’m sorry he wrecked the house. I tried to stop him.” The teenager sounded weird and was slurring his words.

“I don’t care about that. Where are you?”

“Home.” That bad feeling in Mike Paul’s gut intensified.

“You don’t sound right.”

“I don’t feel good.”

Mike Paul hopped in his truck. “I’m coming to get you. Stay put, and don’t move.”

There was no answer. Mike Paul wheeled the truck around and headed toward Big Bend. He called the Sheriff’s office and told the dispatcher that he’d located Jacob and to instruct Humphries to meet him at the Clappison place.

He drove to the south end, an area that had seen better days. Some of the homes were well-kept, but most were in a state of disrepair. The Clappison place fell under the latter category and looked no different than the week before—sheets covering the windows and garbage piled up along the side with two broken-down vehicles parked haphazardly in the driveway. Mike Paul parked his truck on the street and ran up the small, uneven steps. The lights were on, and music blared into the otherwise quiet night.

He didn’t bother knocking because no one would hear him anyway. He opened the door and let himself inside.

The front room was small and messy, with piles of clothes and crap in the corners. A cat stared at him from on top of the old television with a busted-out screen. The tired grey walls, bright from the overhead lightbulb that hung from the ceiling, were harsh. He spied Jacob, seemingly asleep on the ratty sofa, a bunch of half-empty liquor bottles on the coffee table. The kid’s face was starting to bruise, and his right eye was swollen shut. He bent over and checked his vitals. His breathing was shallow, his heart rate thready. There was powder residue on the table and a bag of pills beside it.

Blinding rage shook through Mike Paul. His body thrummed with the force of it.

“Get away from my boy.” The guttural voice came at him.

Mike Paul took a moment. It was that, or he’d kill the bastard. “You don’t deserve this kid.”

He turned, and the world became small. Marcus stood by the front door, his crazy eyes glassy and round in his gaunt face. Spittle pooled at the corners of his thin mouth, and his clothes were dirty and stained. He was strung out and aggressive, but it was the thing in his hands that made Mike Paul’s blood run cold.

He tried his best to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “Now, Marcus, let’s talk about this. I don’t know what he’s taken, but he’s not doing good. Your boy needs to get to a hospital. We need to get him there. You and me. Okay?”

Marcus Clappison didn’t say a word. He pulled on the trigger and fired.