HUNTING (PAVAD) Page 12

  He didn’t think so. He pulled the sleeping woman on to his lap, and sat there for the longest time enjoying just holding her.

  After a while he forced himself to get up. He arranged her on the couch so she’d be more comfortable, then covered her with the blanket she’d had over the back of a chair. She sighed and settled more deeply into the sofa pillow.

  Malachi cleaned the kitchen—loading the dishwasher, sweeping the spilled crackers up off the floor, tying up the trash and placing it in the bin outside the backdoor. He had just finished snooping through the main areas of the house—he didn’t invade Julia’s bedroom, just the living room, kitchen, and den areas—when he heard the sound of tiny feet running down the hardwood hallway.

  Ruthie stopped and stared up at him.

  He instinctively hunkered down to her level. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “Where’s Momma Jules?”

  The worry in her little voice hurt him. He held out his arms, wondering if she’d let him hold her like he had a few days before. She did, though her eyes were wary. “Momma Jules took a nap on the couch. Let’s see if we can be really quiet and not wake her.”

  “I’m hungry. Momma Jules said I could have tato tots.”

  Malachi had seen them in a container in the fridge. “I’ll warm some up. Are you a little hungry or a lot hungry?”

  “Lots. Tato tots are good.”

  “Yes, they are.” He nuked a half dozen and found an individual container of applesauce and one of cheese cubes. It wasn’t the best meal for a kid, but Ruthie didn’t seem to mind. She devoured her snack.

  “Why are you here?” Was asked around a mouthful.

  “I’m friends with Momma Jules. And my sister brought stuff for you and your mother.” It surprised him at how easily the word mother in conjunction with this child rolled off of his tongue. So soon, anyway. “After she wakes up, you can look at it, I bet.”

  “Is it good stuff?”

  “I think so. But I’m not a little girl, so you’ll have to tell me.”

  “I can do that.”

  ***

  Jules had been awake for a while and she’d watched him carry Ruthie into the kitchen. She lay there on the couch listening to their conversation, how he set Ruthie at ease, how he had the little girl laughing with him. And he’d looked so darned natural holding Ruthie on his hip while he worked in her kitchen.

  She felt a softening in her heart toward him that she definitely didn’t want to feel. How could she not when the man had cleaned her kitchen while she napped? Why had the Fates up there done this to her now? Why couldn’t she have kept him at a distance like she had for the last eight months? She didn’t have room for a man like him. Not a man like Malachi Perfect Brockman.

  She didn’t. She couldn’t. And she wouldn’t. No matter how hard that was for her.

  They were better off with what they’d agreed on. No mention of what had happened between them, and they kept their relationship professional. Coworkers, who were mildly friendly with each other. That was all she could handle.

  So why did that make everything seem so…bleak?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  * * *

  The first week went about as well as Jules had expected. They’d had a few meltdowns, and Ruthie was frightened every time Jules got out of her sight, but they had developed some sort of a routine. Jules just worried that routine would be completely disrupted when she returned to work in a week. And Rosa couldn’t watch Ruthie as planned. She’d called two days earlier and apologized, but she was getting married and would be cutting back her work load considerably. What could Jules say? The woman had been widowed for years, and had worked for Ed since her husband’s death line-of-duty. She was entitled to retire. Jules still hadn’t figured out a solution.

  Ruthie had been in a tough mood since she’d wakened, and Jules was struggling to figure out what was bothering the little girl. The spilled cereal was just another incident in a long compilation of them.

  The milk was everywhere; soggy cereal stuck the chair and sloshed over the floor. Ruthie dropped to the floor and started scooping the cereal back into the bowl with almost frantic movements. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I was bad! Bad! I’m always bad! God will ‘mite me! He’ll ‘mite me!”

  Her sobs grew louder and she tried picking up the milk with fingers that were shaking.

  Jules dropped to her side and pulled the shivering child into her arms. “Baby, no good God would hurt a little child for spilling milk. He loves you. I love you. It’s ok; we can clean up the mess and get new cereal. Shhhh.”

  “He’ll ‘mite me, He’ll ‘mite me. Like Hannah was ‘mited! I made a mess. And now you’re going to send me back!”

  “No, baby. No. I will never send you back. I promise you that. You will never be smited.” They sat there on the floor for Jules didn’t know how long. Ruthie cried, and cried, and cried, and Jules cried along with her. Something that had already happened a few times over the past week. She rocked the little girl, not caring that the milk on the floor eventually soaked into the cream colored trousers she wore.

  Finally, Ruthie fell asleep in her arms, too worn out from crying to stay awake though a glance at the clock told Jules it was not yet ten a.m. Poor baby; what had she gone through to have such responses ingrained so deeply, even now, months after she’d been removed from that hell that had been her parents’ house? Was she even old enough to have memories that were developed enough to still frighten her? And why had the sudden onset of this smiting business?

  She didn’t know; but she knew a child psychologist that she could ask. And as Ruthie continued to cling to her, even while asleep, Jules got over her hesitation. Didn’t it make more sense to ask a professional how best to help Ruthie?

  She carried Ruthie to the couch, unwilling to put her down just yet. She grabbed the phone and dialed Al. “I need help. Is your brother around?”

  “Tweedledee or Tweedledum? And are you ok?”

  “Oh Tweedledee, definitely. If that means Malachi…and I’m ok. I think.”

  “He’s right here.”

  “Julia? What is it? Has something happened?”

  “Ruthie had…a…episode, I guess you’d call it. And I need a professional opinion. And I don’t want to ask your mother.” She kept her voice low, as she rocked in the antique chair Georgia had given her as a housewarming present. “I’m not sure what to do next.”

  “Do you need me to come over? I have all day free.”

  Did she? She looked at her little girl, and her decision was made that quickly. “Yes. I think I do. Because this is something I don’t understand. And I have no clue what to do next.”

  ***

  He was both concerned and elated at Julia’s call. She’d called him for help, when she didn’t have to. He wasted no time throwing on a clean sweatshirt and grabbing his ID, gun—he went nowhere without it after the kidnapping, and his car keys. Ten minutes later he was pulling into the small home on Chesterfield Farms Drive. He knocked, and Julia met him at the door, Ruthie sound asleep in her arms. He followed her inside, then waited while she laid the little girl on the couch and covered her with a blanket.

  “Sweetheart, what’s going on?” He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and guided her to sit beside Ruthie. He took the chair across from her. “What happened?”

  “Ruthie spilled her cereal.”

  He listened while she explained what had happened, ending with, “It took me more than an hour and a half to get her to stop crying. I’m not sure what I should do about this. She honestly feels that God will strike her down at any moment for any little thing she does wrong. I don’t know how to help her with this.”

  “So you called me.” She could have called several people—did she realize that? Both Hell and Georgia could have offered advice, both as parents of a traumatized child and as behavioral psychologists, as could have Fin McLaughlin, someone he knew she was friendly with. Not to mention his mother, who was one of the top five abno
rmal child psychologists in the country. So what did it mean that she’d turned to him?

  “Yes. You know exactly what situation this child came from—or know as much as anyone. I figured that would save me a lot of time.”

  So he was the most expedient. Figured. “Have you gotten her files yet?” The social workers would have noted everything they knew about the Byrum household, and Ruthie’s experiences in it.

  “Most, I think.” She stroked the little girl’s hair. “There are quite a few holes, I think. I’m not sure why. And most of what they had was inferred from Hannah and the older two boys’ statements. At Ruthie’s age, she wasn’t considered a reliable witness, nor was the youngest brother.”

  “Not that it matters. You and I both know what she was probably exposed to from birth.” How was he to help her and Ruthie? What could he say to make the situation better for the both of them?

  “So what do I do now? She honestly believes that God will kill her for being bad. For having simple accidents. She’s really too young to even know about death and God, isn’t she?”

  “She’s probably beginning to understand the emotions people feel in death situations, but I doubt she understood the finality of it. She probably just likens death to pain—and possibly burning if the Byrums repeatedly spoke of hell and brimstone. Or burned her as an object lesson. Which I bet they did. To her God is pain and hurt and just all around bad.”

  “And now she fears a God she’s too young to believe in.” Bitterness coated her words, and he understood it. “She has a burn scar on the back of her leg.”

  “Take her to church.” He thought about it for a moment, fighting the anger that filled him at her words. He reminded himself that Ruthie was safe now, with people who loved her. “Find her a Sunday school class, activities with kids her age, and as positive a belief system as you can.”

  She looked at him like he was crazy, and how could he blame her? The little girl’s nightmares were of a vengeful God, why would anyone want to make it more difficult for the child to understand the concept of faith and forgiveness? “Let me get this straight; you think I should expose this little girl to more religion?”

  “Yes. I think that’s exactly what you should do. Find a church or a faith itself that promotes the forgiveness and love and all of the good things that Christianity—or any religion—can possess, and show her how it should be. Help her understand that the way the Byrums taught her was completely wrong. It’ll take time, but I think if you don’t a part of her will always have those kinds of associations with anyone expressing any type of faith or religion. And she could continue to build these negative images in her mind, until you’re dealing with nightmares on a more frequent basis.”

  She jumped up as quietly as it was possible for her to without waking Ruthie and began pacing the rug. “So you’re saying I really have no choice.”

  “Of course you do. But I think this will be the quickest way to help her heal.” Malachi stood and joined her on the rug. He fought the urge to wrap his arms around her and hold her.

  “So, tomorrow, we go to church. I don’t even know where to begin. I’ve not been to church in more than fifteen years.”

  “Not even for your wedding?” No princess wedding for Julia, with her perfect prince groom? He couldn’t help wonder why.

  “No. We were married in a local city garden. It was beautiful. I’m not sure I do church. It’s not my thing.”

  “But I think it may need to be Ruthie’s thing. But you do what you think is best.” Malachi hugged her, though she was resistant. He kissed her forehead, then stepped back. Now wasn’t the time for their concerns, but Ruthie’s. “In the meantime, I think somebody is waking.”

  ***

  Church. Great. Jules didn’t understand church, and never really had. She believed in God, or some version of Him—she’d seen too many things in her career not to—but she’d never understood the organized religion part of things. As far as she could tell, there were more problems associated with the group aspect of worship than there were benefits.

  Still, she’d given Malachi’s advice a lot of thought, and had even called and talked about it with Georgia. The other woman had surprisingly agreed, and then helped Jules pick a church to attend. Georgia and Hellbrook were both Catholic, though they didn’t’ attend Mass often. Georgia’s father did, though, and took Mattie when he had him. Jules knew that Catholic was something she definitely wasn’t. Her mother had pretended to be a devout Catholic whenever she hadn’t been drinking. She’d dragged Jules to Mass off and on for years.

  No, Jules was definitely not Catholic. And neither would Ruthie be.

  After some discussion of what Jules would most likely be comfortable with—if she ever would—Georgia had suggested trying Al’s church. The same one that Al attended with all of her family—including Meredith and Kenneth. And Malachi.

  She was never going to escape Malachi. She might as well accept that. The Fates kept pushing her toward him. She pulled Ruthie from the childseat. The little girl had been completely freaked out when Jules told her where they were going. Now she was just wide-eyed and quiet. She clung to Jules’ neck when Jules tried to set her on her feet.

  Not that Jules didn’t understand. The big stone building with its towering steeples and its ringing bells was more than a bit intimidating. Jules consoled herself with the knowledge that she’d know people inside. Malachi might have her confused over their personal feelings for one another, but one thing she’d definitely admit to—she respected his professional opinion. Greatly. He’d suggested this for a reason. And she trusted that.

  And Al was a friend; Al didn’t have a perverted religious viewpoint. Jules would have already caught on to that. And both Al’s parents were normal, well-adjusted professionals in their fields. And Jules liked and respected both of them.

  It was just residual nerves from her childish experiences making her stomach burn at the thought of entering the imposing structure. Ruthie tightened her hold on Jules’ neck until Jules thought she’d choke. She gently loosened the little girl’s arms. “It’s ok, baby. I promise. You can sit on my lap the entire time we’re in there, ok?”

  “Promise? They won’t put me in the closet?” Tiny fingers dug into Jules’ shoulder.

  “Who put you in the closet, baby?”

  “My other mommy. When we went to church and me and Lijah were too bad.”

  “Honey, that was just a really bad church. It wasn’t anything you or your brother did. It was the grown-ups who were bad. I promise this church is not like that. There will be other kids in there for you to play with, too.” She mentioned her brothers a lot, especially the one closest in age, Elijah. Jules made a silent vow to keep in touch with the great-uncle who’d taken Ruthie’s brothers. He’d been receptive to the contact, but Jules had been uncertain. Now she wondered if she should. They were Ruthie’s family, after all.

  “No brim-tone?”

  “No. None of that. The other kids probably sing lots of songs, and color lots of pictures. I bet they play games, too. But you can stay with me in the big people part for as long as you want. And if either of us doesn’t like this church we can find another one. How does that sound?”

  Ruthie nodded, and the grip she had on Jules eased up a little. “I don’t want to.”

  “I know, but we both have to.” Did they? Was this really the best option for them both? Did she want Ruthie to grow up with the kind of lasting fear both Malachi and Georgia had described?

  No. She didn’t. So if that meant attending church every Sunday morning for a few months, then Jules would do it. No matter how uncomfortable it made her feel.

  ***

  Almost like a magnet, Malachi’s gaze went straight to the door them minute the last person he expected to see entered the church his mother and sister attended every Sunday. He went more weeks than not, himself. He’d grown up in church every Sunday, fell out of the habit in his college years, then as he’d gotten more and more enmeshed in
his duties with the FBI found he needed the religious and social connection to help process what he dealt with on a regular basis.

  He hadn’t expected Jules to show up at his family’s church. He’d thought she’d go with Georgia and Ed, honestly. He was out of his seat and heading toward the two before he even realized he was moving. They both looked so small, and so lost in the large sanctuary and his heart swelled with the need to make everything better for them.

  “Julia?” He said her name softly and from several feet away, but she still heard him. The relief in her eyes surprised him, until it sank in that she was just as scared as her little girl. Poor Julia, always so scared of everything. “Sweetheart?”

  Hazel eyes stared at him for a moment, then she let out a long breath. Relief was clear for anyone to see on her face. “Malachi. Well, here we are.”

  “I thought you’d go to Mass with Georgia.” He patted Ruthie’s back, but didn’t try to take her from Jules. They had too tight of a grip on each other. Did they even realize how the bonds between them were strengthening? He did, and it was beautiful to see.

  “I’m not Catholic. George said your parents and sister like this church, and that she thought there were several children Ruthie’s age here.”

  “It has a decent-sized congregation. Al is co-teacher for a Sunday School class for kids Ruthie’s age. It starts at 9:30, if you want to try that next week.”

  “I think we’re just going to attend main services for a few weeks. See if we can do this.” She tilted her head in Ruthie’s direction, letting him know that there was more going on than she was saying. “We made a deal to check things out together. Where are your parents?”

  “We’re sitting up here. There’s plenty of room, if you want to join m—us.”