what they would do when they got out of school. But she never mentioned Hidden Springs, and Hidden Springs seemed right in the center of Michaelâs future. He hadnât felt that itchy, crawly feeling inside his skin that made other people jump the fences of their youth and find more exciting pastures.
Michael liked the grass fine in Hidden Springs. He especially liked the feeling he was taking care of his town, protecting people he knew and cared about, keeping the peace without having to pull out his gun.
That thought brought him up short and made him too aware of the gun on his belt. The gun had felt extra heavy ever since Buckâs parting shot that morning.
It wasnât that Michael didnât like guns. He did. He liked the solid feel of a gun in his hand when he was target shooting.He enjoyed the challenge of keeping his eye true to the mark and figuring out the quirks of different firearms, especially the antique guns passed down from his Keane ancestors. Last summer he even put on the Confederate gray and carried Pascal Keaneâs Sharps rifle in the Civil War reenactment over at the state park in Buxley. Like Uncle Pascal, heâd been shot early on in the battle, but next year heâd been promised a longer-lived part, maybe as a Union captain like another of his ancestors, William Keane.
The only thing he didnât like about guns was actually using them in his job. Most of the time, even in the city, he was able to leave his gun in its holster and handle confrontations with his voice and confident posture. And with Pete right behind him, his gun ready in an instant, that strange gleam in his eyes warning perpetrators not to mess with him.
Then Michael found himself in that dim old warehouse looking down the barrel of his gun at that girl child. He wanted away from that. He wanted to save lives, not take lives.
He wanted to save that girl. After weeks of looking, he found her and a little brother living in the corner of another deserted warehouse. At least theyâd been sleeping there. During the day, they stayed on the move. For almost a week he watched them, making sure not to let the girl spot him. He didnât want to spook her and give her a chance to disappear again. One evening he caught the little brother alone, and a sack of hamburgers and French fries were enough to win him over.
The girl wasnât as easy, but she wouldnât desert her little brother, whatever the cost. Michael did some fast talking and managed to convince her he wouldnât haul them off to social services. At least not until they talked. She stayed onher toes, ready to grab the boyâs hand and take off, but then the boy handed her some fries and a cookie.
Michael wasnât sure if the chocolate chip cookie won her over or whether she was simply too tired to run. He didnât badger her with questions. Instead, he sat there with them and waited, as though he had all the time in the world. At last she started talking, and like a dam bursting, her whole story rushed out.
Her name was Hallie. The little brother was Erik. In a few months their mother was up for parole and sheâd promised to get a real job when she got out and leave the drugs behind. All they had to do was hold on a little longer. Hallie scavenged food out of supermarket trash cans and stole an apple or jar of peanut butter now and again.
But then school started, and Erik cried when she said he couldnât go. He was six and wanted to learn to read, but you had to have money to go to school. For fees and lunches. That kind of stuff. Erik couldnât say he didnât have it, not without people finding out no adults were on the scene. Hallie had already lost a little sister to social services. She was determined not to lose Erik. Sheâd promised her mother.
That first day, Michael gave her every cent he had on him. If Pete knew, heâd tell him he was crazy, that the girl was feeding him a line. Street kids
Michael liked the grass fine in Hidden Springs. He especially liked the feeling he was taking care of his town, protecting people he knew and cared about, keeping the peace without having to pull out his gun.
That thought brought him up short and made him too aware of the gun on his belt. The gun had felt extra heavy ever since Buckâs parting shot that morning.
It wasnât that Michael didnât like guns. He did. He liked the solid feel of a gun in his hand when he was target shooting.He enjoyed the challenge of keeping his eye true to the mark and figuring out the quirks of different firearms, especially the antique guns passed down from his Keane ancestors. Last summer he even put on the Confederate gray and carried Pascal Keaneâs Sharps rifle in the Civil War reenactment over at the state park in Buxley. Like Uncle Pascal, heâd been shot early on in the battle, but next year heâd been promised a longer-lived part, maybe as a Union captain like another of his ancestors, William Keane.
The only thing he didnât like about guns was actually using them in his job. Most of the time, even in the city, he was able to leave his gun in its holster and handle confrontations with his voice and confident posture. And with Pete right behind him, his gun ready in an instant, that strange gleam in his eyes warning perpetrators not to mess with him.
Then Michael found himself in that dim old warehouse looking down the barrel of his gun at that girl child. He wanted away from that. He wanted to save lives, not take lives.
He wanted to save that girl. After weeks of looking, he found her and a little brother living in the corner of another deserted warehouse. At least theyâd been sleeping there. During the day, they stayed on the move. For almost a week he watched them, making sure not to let the girl spot him. He didnât want to spook her and give her a chance to disappear again. One evening he caught the little brother alone, and a sack of hamburgers and French fries were enough to win him over.
The girl wasnât as easy, but she wouldnât desert her little brother, whatever the cost. Michael did some fast talking and managed to convince her he wouldnât haul them off to social services. At least not until they talked. She stayed onher toes, ready to grab the boyâs hand and take off, but then the boy handed her some fries and a cookie.
Michael wasnât sure if the chocolate chip cookie won her over or whether she was simply too tired to run. He didnât badger her with questions. Instead, he sat there with them and waited, as though he had all the time in the world. At last she started talking, and like a dam bursting, her whole story rushed out.
Her name was Hallie. The little brother was Erik. In a few months their mother was up for parole and sheâd promised to get a real job when she got out and leave the drugs behind. All they had to do was hold on a little longer. Hallie scavenged food out of supermarket trash cans and stole an apple or jar of peanut butter now and again.
But then school started, and Erik cried when she said he couldnât go. He was six and wanted to learn to read, but you had to have money to go to school. For fees and lunches. That kind of stuff. Erik couldnât say he didnât have it, not without people finding out no adults were on the scene. Hallie had already lost a little sister to social services. She was determined not to lose Erik. Sheâd promised her mother.
That first day, Michael gave her every cent he had on him. If Pete knew, heâd tell him he was crazy, that the girl was feeding him a line. Street kids
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