Draw One In The Dark(87)

And he was fully awake, staring at the ceiling a few minutes later, while thoughts that shouldn't be in his head insisted on running through it. Thoughts such as—shouldn't Tom's father do something to save him? no matter how unworthy the boy was—and really, what had he ever done while living in his father's house that wasn't done by kids of his age and set? He'd gone joyriding. He'd been caught with pot, once. And he'd committed minor acts of vandalism. He'd been naked in public twice, both in his last week at home—after he'd started shifting. Nothing that other kids he ran with didn't do. Kids who were now, for the most part, at Yale and Harvard.



But Edward had kicked Tom out of the house. And never even stirred himself to find out what exactly the boy was doing. Or even if he was alive.



"He was a shape-shifter," he said to the cool air of the room. "He was a dragon."



But the empty room seemed to sneer disdainfully at this excuse, and he sat up in bed, furious at himself. The truth was that since his marriage had broken apart, Tom had been more of a burden than anything else. A hindrance to just living the life of an unattached adult, with a job and a few casual dates and no significant attachments. Because, if Edward hadn't been around for a while, then Tom took it upon himself to get parental attention by getting himself arrested or by—and suddenly Edward smiled remembering exactly what that had looked like—shaving half of his head and dying the rest of his hair bright orange. Why was it that at a distance of eight years that memory seemed funny and endearing.



Fully awake, he dug into his briefcase and brought out his cell phone. He called information in Palmetto, Florida. And then he called Sylvia.



A kid answered the phone, speaking in the endearing lisp of a child whose front teeth are missing and when Edward asked for Sylvia, screamed at the top of his lungs, "Mom."



This was followed by the click of pumps on the floor, and finally Sylvia's voice on the phone. "Hello."



"Hi, Sylvia, this is Edward."



"Who?"



"Edward Ormson?"



There was a short silence, followed by "Oh." And, after a longish pause. "How may I help you?"



Exactly like the waitress at an impersonal restaurant, Edward thought, but then they hadn't seen each other in over ten years. She had another family. It was foolish of him to resent it. Well, it was foolish of him to call too, but he felt he had to. She had never even sent Tom a birthday card. Not that Edward had seen.



"I just wanted to know if you've heard from Tom?"



"Who?"



"Thomas. Your son?"



"Oh. Tom?"



Was she not sure who her oldest son was? Edward should have felt revolted, but instead he felt more guilty than ever. What a pair they had made. Poor boy. Poor screwed up boy who'd ended up with them.



She seemed to collect herself, from a long ways away. "Isn't he living with you?" she said.



Edward took a deep breath. "No." And he hung up.



He didn't know what he had expected. That Sylvia was secretly a great mom? After all, she'd turned Tom over to a nanny as soon as she could, and returned to her job before he was one month old.



He walked over to the window and looked out again. No. He knew what he had hoped for. He had hoped that Sylvia would behave like a responsible, caring parent and thereby redeem all his memories of Tom's childhood. Prove to him that the boy had had at least one attentive parent till the divorce. And that if he'd gone wrong it was entirely his fault and his parents couldn't be blamed.



If that could be proved to be true—well, then Edward would feel if not justified at least slightly less guilty in washing his hands of Tom.



But his ex-wife's behavior, his own memories of his behavior only proved to him that Tom had never had a chance. Not even the beginning of one. And yet, he was still alive, five years after being kicked out. And Kyrie Smith liked him. That had to count for something. He couldn't be completely lost to humanity if he'd engaged the interest of an attractive and clearly smart young woman.



Kyrie Smith. She was a panther in her other form, Lung had said. Perhaps she knew other shifters. With their help, perhaps Edward could go up against the triad. Perhaps he could rescue his son.



He wasn't sure he could have Tom move back in. He wasn't sure he could endure Tom for much longer than a few hours. He wasn't even sure that he should ever have had a son, since he seemed to have approached the enterprise with the idea that children were sort of animated dolls.



But he was sure the least he could do was save his son's life. Or not cooperate with his murderers.





* * *




Kyrie was not in a good mood. Oh, she was sure most of the reason for her feeling as down as she did was the fact that she really hadn't slept much.